#shes very bitter and kind of mean

[styxxsyringe]

"it's *not* some fake fairy dust bullshit, onion. it's witchcraft, and it's real."

jaundice myers, a companion to onion, punching bag to the big fish of postmortem high, and one of the supporting characters of reassassination. a self proclaimed witch, she spends her days listening to goth music and practicing curses to finally thwart her enemies.

+ inspo sheets for her and onion!

[ovenproofowl]

wouldn't be a Moffat Episode™️without reducing every character to a one-dimensional furniture piece to revolve around a version of the doctor that hasn't existed since 2017 🍾

[itspileofgoodthings]

Taylor returning over and over to the falling through the ice accident in the Bolter—everything to me

[clarabowmp3]

in other words its my ex-bsf's birthday today and I am in no mood to wish her and idc how petty or immature that makes me

[eyes1nthewoods]

watched nimona. it was ok.

[potatoesandsunshine]

jane... you could pull off bangs 😭

[herawell]

.

[theabigailthorn]

What are we supposed to do now? By ‘we’ I mean UK based trans women and transfems. How are we meant to continue? Knowing the country hates us. The law refuses to accept our existence. Everyone wishes we would just shut up and disappear. How are we supposed to live like this? I know I can’t.

Let me tell you a very funny story that might make you feel better.

Not long ago I called the suicide hotline feeling exactly the way you describe. The volunteer on the other end was an older cis lady, and I was like, "Hey, I'm trans - all this stuff is happening, the government says blah blah blah, the court says XYZ, and I feel like I'm living in this really hostile country that hates me, and it sucks!" I told her how angry I was, how much all this makes me hate by fellow human beings, how much I wouldn't care if Britain sank into the sea or was burned away to ashes along with all its inhabitants, and how ashamed I am of feeling such venom and cynicism.

And there was a bit of a pause.

And the volunteer lady says, "What's trans?"

I - Joker makeup bursting from the pores of my face - explain to her what being transgender is. She has questions like, "So, what was the legal process like, what do you have to do?" and I'm like "Oh HO HO HO! Let me tell you the hoops I had to jump through!" and she's like "Wow, that sounds so difficult?" and I'm like, "HEE HEE HEE I haven't even gotten to the difficult bit yet!" I'm ranting, I'm pacing my living room like a tiger, quoting Merchant of Venice and Coriolanus down the phone to this woman on the suicide hotline, like "If you prick us do we not bleed?! If you tickle us do we not laugh?!" "I banish you, and here remain with your uncertainty!" (She's like "I remember this Shakespeare from school!") It feels like I'm vomiting up this black sludge of hate that I've built up, like people spit on me and I've absorbed all that spit and now I'm burning with it.

So at the end of all this the volunteer lady's like well yeah of course you feel angry, that makes perfect sense! Anybody with a heart would feel the way you do! Of course you feel cynical and bitter and despairing! And she tells me that she hasn't seen any of this, but it's shocked her. She thinks this court case sounds like a really backwards step; she thought Britain was progressive. And I'm like, "I used to think that too, and the loss of that illusion hurts."

But then she goes well look - these judges and politicians, they live in a bubble. They don't really know what life is like for ordinary people like me and you. There are plenty of people in Britain like her, who just don't really pay attention to this stuff. There might be some who throw things at me in the street and treat me poorly, but there are also a lot of people who are just... normal? And fine? And who are just doing their own thing, and who are appalled to discover this kind of thing is happening? And I'm like oh yeah - I guess if the country was destroyed all those people would go too... It's not true that everyone wants us to disappear.

And she says she's going to go home and look all of this up because it sounds like trans people are really being mistreated, and she's like "Thank you for telling me all this. I hope you feel better."

And I'm like yeah you know what, I kinda do. It helped to have someone else go, "I understand how you feel." So, y'know, we've got one more ally at least.

[saatorus]

she won't go away— a sukuna fic

art creds to to_0fu (twitter/x)

pairing — college sukuna! x reader

synopsis — of all the people in your chemistry course, you get stuck with ryomen sukuna—the most insufferable, arrogant asshole on campus. he barely does any work, runs his mouth like it’s a sport, and somehow manages to make your life even more exhausting than it already is. if this project doesn’t kill you, he just might.

wc — 26k (ONLY 1K ABOVE THE EXPECTED WC YAAAY)

warnings — explicit sexual content (unprotected sex), sukuna is quite mean in the beginning, possibly incorrect depiction of frat culture (spare me i am not american), lots of sexual jokes, brief tiny smidge of angst, reader is a bad bitch, mentions of feeling insecure, choso and toji are gym himbos.

“Please, anyone but him, professor—” You try begging, hands gripping the edge of the desk like your life depends on it. You know it’s useless, but desperation makes a fool out of you.

Professor Shimizu sighs, sympathy flashing across her face, but it’s gone in an instant. She adjusts her glasses, pushing them up her nose, and gives you a rueful smile. “I understand your concerns,” she says, “and if it were up to me, I’d happily rearrange the groups, but the pairings were assigned by the department. Something about fostering academic cooperation.” She shakes her head like she, too, thinks it’s bullshit. “My hands are tied.”

Your stomach sinks. Fostering academic cooperation? With him? You’d have better luck reasoning with a brick wall—one that could talk back and insult you for fun. You turn back toward the class, eyes darting between the clusters of students already deep in discussion. Some of them look at you with poorly concealed amusement, others with pity. And then there’s him, sitting by the window, looking positively bored like this whole situation is an inconvenience. 

Ryomen Sukuna.

The campus heartthrob. The golden boy of the mechanical engineering department. A nightmare wrapped in a six-foot-something frame of smugness and muscle. A nightmare that you unfortunately have to share your CHEM10002 course with (why he’d picked a premed course as an elective was beyond you) You hate him. And not in the petty ugh, he’s annoying kind of way. It’s deeper than that. He’s insufferable. Arrogant. Egotistical. The type of guy who always has a girl in his bed but never the same one twice. He walks around campus like he owns the place, flashing that sharp grin, that lazy confidence that makes people—girls, especially—fawn over him despite his reputation. Cocky, rude, impossible to work with.

And now you’re stuck with him. Oh, hell no. Your body stiffens. No way. No fucking way. Like hell you’re going to spend the next few weeks working with him. You whip your head back to Professor Shimizu, grasping at anything—anything—to get out of this. “What if I did extra credit? A research paper? A presentation? Anything,” you plead, voice tight. “I’ll take a lower grade. Dock my participation. I don’t care—just not him.”

She sighs, but it’s not exasperated, just… tired. “I appreciate your enthusiasm,” she says, like you’re asking for more work because you love learning instead of trying to escape an actual nightmare. “But, again, I can’t change the pairings. And as much as I’d love to give you an alternative assignment, the department is very strict on this. It’s meant to ‘challenge students to collaborate beyond personal preference.’” She air-quotes it, which means she definitely thinks it’s bullshit. You slump, stomach twisting with something bitter. Collaboration? With Sukuna? The only thing he collaborates on is making everyone’s life harder.

You grit your teeth, hard. He’s lounging now, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other lazily spinning a pen between his fingers while he lazily eyes you from where he’s manspreading in his seat. He doesn’t even look like he’s trying, and that’s what pisses you off the most—he never tries. Not in class, not with people, not with anything. Everything just seems to work out for him anyway.

You hate that you know that. You really hate that you know that. But you’ve known him long enough. Long enough to remember—

Freshman Year

It was something small. Stupid, even. But you still remember the heat of humiliation crawling up your neck, the way people laughed under their breath, how he barely even looked at you afterward, like it hadn’t mattered.  You had been in a required first-year seminar, and the professor called on you to answer a question. It wasn’t hard, but the nerves got the best of you—you stumbled over your words, your voice wavered.

And then you heard it. A tsk, followed by a lazy, mocking lilt:

“Damn. Spit it out, dumbass.”

Heat flushed through you, the classroom suddenly too bright, too small. A few people chuckled—some outright laughed. You had swallowed thickly, willing yourself to focus, to get through the answer. When class ended, you stormed out, ignoring the lingering stares, the murmured that was brutal from some guy behind you. But Sukuna? He didn’t even glance your way. Because to him, it wasn’t anything. It wasn’t worth a second thought. And now, here you are, stuck working with the one person who had made you feel like an idiot before you even had the chance to prove yourself. 

You hadn’t even thought about it that much at the time—not really. But later, when you were alone, it festered. You were just a freshman. Barely out of high school, still figuring things out, still nervous about speaking up in a room full of people smarter, older, better than you. It wasn’t even like you got the answer wrong—you had just hesitated. That was all it took. And it was stupid, so stupid, but after that day, you started thinking twice before speaking in class. Before raising your hand. Before answering anything unless you were absolutely sure you wouldn’t trip over your words. And god, you hate that it got to you. It’s not like it was some big, scarring moment. It was one second of his life. A second he probably doesn’t even remember.

But it was yours. It wasn’t just that one time. There was another. Worse, somehow, because this time, he hadn’t even been speaking to you—just about you. It was late freshman year, after you’d spent the whole semester training yourself not to stutter, not to hesitate, not to embarrass yourself again. You were doing better. At least, you thought you were. Until one afternoon, outside the student center, when you walked past Sukuna and his group of friends—Toji, Choso, Mahito, and a couple of others, all leaned back on the benches like they owned the place.

You weren’t eavesdropping. You didn’t mean to hear it. But then—

“—was struggling so bad, I thought she was gonna pass out.”

A few chuckles. A low whistle from Toji. 

“Like, just say it, dumbass,” Sukuna scoffed, sharp, mocking. “Or at least commit. That shit was painful to listen to.”

Your stomach dropped. You don’t know who they were talking about. Maybe some other poor freshman who had choked on their words mid-discussion. Maybe a random classmate. Maybe—

Your face burned. You forced yourself to keep walking, head down, pretending like it wasn’t about you, like you weren’t suddenly back in that seminar with his voice in your ears and everyone’s quiet snickers pressing into your skin. He didn’t even look at you as you passed. Of course, he didn’t. He probably didn’t even remember it was the same person. And now, three years later, you have to sit across from Ryomen Sukuna, the campus asshole, the man who probably hasn’t stuttered a day in his goddamn life, and pretend you don’t want to walk out of this classroom and never come back.  You exhale sharply, pressing your fingers into your temples.

This is fine. You’ve dealt with annoying people before. You’ve had to work with partners who contributed nothing, who slacked off, who treated group projects like free rides. Sukuna is just another roadblock—one with a stupid face and a worse attitude.

And, honestly? It’s not even about the stuttering thing anymore. That was years ago, and you’d be damned if you let some insignificant moment from freshman year shake you now. Just because he made you insecure about one thing doesn’t mean you’re meek. You’ve worked too hard to let this get to you. So, with all the grace you can muster, you pull out the chair across from him, stiffly sit down, and say, “Hi, I’m—”

Sukuna doesn’t even look at you. Doesn’t acknowledge you. Doesn’t even pretend to try. Instead, he leans back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head, and immediately starts talking to Toji, who’s standing nearby.

“So, dinner at that steak place tonight?”

“Yeah,” Toji mutters, tapping at his phone. “Gonna see if they’ve got space.”

Sukuna scoffs. “They always have space.”

“No, dumbass, last time we went, they were booked.”

“They let us in last time,” Sukuna corrects, smirking, and that smugness makes your eye twitch. Are you being fucking ignored? You glance between them, incredulous, and then say, “I’m literally talking to you.”

That finally gets his attention. Slowly, like you’re the inconvenience here, Sukuna turns his head toward you. His gaze flicks over you, slow, unimpressed, like he’s barely registering you exist. You square your shoulders. “This project is quite hefty. We need to split up the research so we’re not scrambling at the last minute.”

He stares at you for a moment, blank, and then—

He rolls his eyes.

“Jesus,” he mutters, leaning forward, elbows on the table. “You’re one of those, huh?”

You frown. “Excuse me?”

“The tryhard type. Gets assigned a little homework and suddenly thinks they’re running a Fortune 500 company.” He tilts his head, smirking. “Relax, woman. It’s just a project.”

Woman. Your jaw clenches so hard it hurts. 

“That ‘little homework’ is forty five percent of our grade,” you bite out.

“Don’t give a fuck,” he grunts, sounding bored.

You inhale deeply. “So, I was thinking—”

But he groans, dragging a tattooed hand down his face. “Are we seriously doing this now?”

“Yes, we’re seriously doing this now,” you snap. He exhales sharply through his nose, glaring. “God, you’re fucking annoying.”

You’re not sure whether you should be offended or hurt. On one hand, obviously as a normal human being, being spoken to like this from a person you’re quite literally talking to for the first time is bound to hurt your feelings. On the other hand, this guy’s dickhead personality is kind of well known through your university. Your grip on your pen tightens, but you keep your voice even.

 “I’m annoying because I want to pass?”

”You’re annoying because you talk way too fuckin’ much.”

 That stings more than you’d like to admit. You grit your teeth, ignoring the way your stomach tightens, and push forward anyway. “If we divide the research today, we won’t have to meet up as often,” you say, firmly. “I assume you’ll want to do as little work as possible, so let’s just—”

“Holy shit.” Sukuna pushes his chair back with a loud scrape, fixing you with an exasperated look. “Do you ever shut up?” You blink, stunned. Toji snickers.

“Oh, come on,” Sukuna scoffs, throwing up a hand. “You’re gonna sit there all wide-eyed like I just kicked your fuckin’ puppy? You started it.” Your fingers twitch against the table. “Started what?” you ask, voice dangerously calm. “This whole thing—acting like I’m some bum ass delinquent who needs a babysitter.” His eyes narrow. “If you wanna play boss, go find some other loser to be a bitch to.”

Your patience snaps. “Or you could just not be a lazy asshole. Do you lack brain cells? You’ve seriously told me to shut up like 5 times in the span of about ten minutes. Do you have a problem where you can’t focus?” The air between you shifts.

Sukuna’s jaw tics. His expression darkens, something sharp flashing through his eyes, but then his lips pull into something crueler than a smirk—something with edges, something dangerous.

“You think I’m lazy? Got somethin’ wrong with me because I can’t take your nerdy bitching?” he asks, voice low. You hesitate, but only for a second. “Glad you have the ability to comprehend what I said.” That makes him grin. “And you think I’m an asshole?”

“Yes.”

He hums, tilting his head. Then he leans forward, just slightly, elbows resting on the table. His voice drops into something smug, mocking—

“Then why the fuck are you still talking to me?”

Your blood boils.

What the fuck is his problem?

You lean forward too, matching him, refusing to shrink under his gaze. “Because I have to, dumbass,” you snap. “I tried to change my group. I begged. I offered to do extra credit. I would have written a whole goddamn thesis if it meant not sitting across from you—but guess what?” You gesture sharply between you. “I’m stuck with you.”

Sukuna raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Tragic.”

You let out a frustrated breath, gripping the edge of the table so hard your knuckles turn white. “So, as much as I’d love to pretend you don’t exist—”

“Then do it,” he interrupts, tone dry.

You blink. “What?”

“If you wanna pretend I don’t exist, go ahead,” he drawls, leaning back lazily. “Do the whole project yourself. You’ll probably enjoy it, since you’re clearly getting off on playing group leader.”

“Oh, my god.” You clench your fists, barely restraining yourself. “Why are you such a dickhead? Parents not teach you basic respect?”

“Because you don’t shut the fuck up,” he snaps, finally looking genuinely irritated.

Your lips part, incredulous. “I’m literally just trying to do the fucking project? Like any normal human being?”

“No, you’re trying to control shit,” Sukuna says flatly. “Like this is some big deal—like I haven’t passed a million of these useless classes already.”

You stare at him. “You think this is useless?”

He smirks. “Yeah.”

Oh, you hate him.

“Some of us actually give a shit about our grades, Sukuna.”

“You know my name? Cute.” You inhale sharply through your nose, trying to stay calm, trying not to launch your textbook at his stupid, perfect face. “I don’t care how many classes you’ve passed,” you say, voice taut. “You’re doing this one with me. I care about this project. And if I have to suffer through working with you, you can at least pretend to give a shit.” He tilts his head, mockingly thoughtful. “Mm. No.”

You exhale slowly, trying—failing—to stop your hands from curling into fists.

“I swear to god—”

“What, huh?” he cuts in, voice dripping with condescension. “You gonna whine to the professor again?” He lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Pathetic.”

Your jaw tightens. He grins, like he’s won something. Like he’s getting exactly what he wants—like this is a game to him, something to toy with, something to waste his time on. And you refuse to let him win. So, you straighten your spine, lift your chin, and meet his gaze without flinching. “Fine,” you say, voice steely. “If you want to half-ass this, be my guest. Just don’t expect me to pick up your slack.”

Sukuna watches you, amused, as if he’s waiting for you to crack. When you don’t, he smirks.

“We’ll see.”

You inhale sharply, forcing yourself to keep your voice level.

“Well, unfortunately for you,” you say stiffly, “you actually have to do your share.”

Sukuna snorts. “Says who?”

“The professor.” You cross your arms. “Since apparently, students have been slacking on group projects, we have to submit proof of collaboration—meeting logs, progress updates, actual proof that we’re working together.” His expression darkens. You fight the urge to smirk. Suffer.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he mutters.

“Nope.” You press your lips together, trying to hold back your pure satisfaction. “So, congratulations, Sukuna. You have to meet up with me at least once a week.” He exhales sharply through his nose, glaring at you like you’re personally ruining his life. “You’re telling me I have to sit through this shit every week?”

“Yep.”

“You specifically?”

“Yep.”

Sukuna groans, dragging a hand through the unruly pink strands of his hair. Then, just as you’re about to remind him that this is literally his problem for being a shit student, he lifts his head—eyes raking over you in a slow, lazy once-over. And then, he smirks. You freeze.

“What?” you snap, immediately on edge.

His smirk widens.

“Nah, I was just thinking,” he drawls, tipping his head back against his chair. “If you were hotter, this would be way less painful.”

Your stomach drops. The words hit you like a slap, and for a second, all you can do is sit there, stunned, completely caught off guard by how casual—how easy—it is for him to say something like that. Like it’s just true. Like it’s a fact. Your fingers dig into your sleeve. And the worst part? It’s not even the insult itself that stings—it’s the sheer, blatant dismissal. The fact that he looks at you and immediately decides you’re not worth even pretending to be interested in. As if you were hoping for his attention. As if you were seeking his approval. 

“Yeah?” you say, voice flat, emotionless. “Well, if you were smarter, I wouldn’t have to carry your useless ass through this class.” His grin falters, just barely, but you see it—and for once, it’s your turn to smirk. You lean forward, matching his posture, tilting your head mockingly.

“Guess we’re both disappointed, huh?” 

For a moment, Sukuna just stares at you. And you don’t miss the way his jaw tightens, how his fingers twitch against the table like he’s fighting the urge to rip you apart. Good. Then—he exhales sharply through his nose, tipping his chair back slightly, acting unfazed even though you saw the flicker of irritation in his eyes. “Damn,” he muses, voice slow, dragging. “Didn’t know you had a mouth on you.”

“Yeah?” You tilt your head. “Didn’t know you gave a shit.”

Sukuna scoffs. “I don’t.”

“Then shut the fuck up and do your assigned work.”

He lets out a low, mean laugh, running a hand through his hair. “You’re lucky I’m feeling generous today.”

“Generous?” You nearly choke. “You’ve been nothing but a dick since the moment I sat down.”

He shrugs, unbothered. “Could be worse.”

You want to strangle him. Instead, you inhale sharply through your nose, pressing your palms flat against the table before forcing yourself to stay on track. “Whatever,” you say, shaking your head. “Here’s the deal: we have to meet at least once a week. I don’t care where. I don’t care when. But we need to get the work done, and I need proof that you were actually present—because if we don’t, we both fail.”

Sukuna glares at you, as if the very concept of responsibility offends him.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face again. “You’re really gonna be a hardass about this, huh?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t care about failing?”

“Not really.”

Your eyes narrow. “Then why are you even in this class?”

At this, he finally drops his chair back down onto all four legs, leaning in slightly. “Let’s get one thing straight,” he says, voice lower, more serious. “I don’t need this shit. I’m here because my old man thinks I should at least pretend to give a fuck about college.” He smirks, sharp and taunting. “But don’t get it twisted—I don’t actually give a fuck.” You pause, studying him, trying to piece together the weight behind his words. Of course, you know he comes from money. Everyone does. The Ryomen family name carries weight, old money, power, prestige—so it makes sense that college, for him, is just some bullshit obligation rather than a means to a future. Still, something about the way he says it—how bitter it sounds—sticks with you. Not that you care.

You roll your eyes. “Right. Got it. Poor little rich boy.”

His smirk drops.

For a second, there’s silence.

Then—

“You know what?” Sukuna says, voice eerily calm. “Fine. I’ll meet up with you.”

You blink, a little thrown off by how easily he gives in.

“…Okay?”

“But.” His gaze darkens, and the corner of his mouth twitches, almost like he’s daring you to argue. “You work around my schedule.”

Your stomach twists with irritation. “That’s not—”

“Not my problem,” he cuts in smoothly, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t do morning meetups. I don’t do last-minute bullshit. And if you start bitching about how I ‘don’t take this seriously,’” he mocks, voice lilting high, “I will walk out and leave you with an automatic fail. Or whatever the fuck happens to your grade if the other person doesn’t do their part. Got it?” Your blood boils. But what can you do? You already tried to get reassigned. So, through gritted teeth, you say, “Fine.”

Sukuna smirks.

“Good girl.”

–

You should have known it was going to be hell the second he suggested meeting at the East Wing library. It’s the furthest damn library on campus—twenty minutes from the dorms, uphill, and completely out of the way. Not a single other student in your class would have chosen that location. And yet, when you tried suggesting the much closer, more convenient library, Sukuna had just shrugged, barely sparing you a glance as he packed up his bag.

“Aw, did you forget that I’m in charge of where we meet up?,” he drawled, voice dripping with fake sympathy. “That sounds like a you problem.”

And just like that, the decision was final. So now, here you are, twenty minutes later, climbing the last flight of stairs to the East Wing library, already in a foul mood before the study session has even started. And when you finally get there? You find Sukuna kicked back in his chair at one of the study tables, feet up, scrolling through his phone like he’s waiting on room service instead of his own damn groupmate.

No laptop. No notes No book. Just his phone. Un-fucking-believable. You drop your bag onto the chair across from him, loudly, but he doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t look up. Doesn’t acknowledge your presence at all.

“Seriously?” you deadpan, arms crossing. Sukuna exhales through his nose, still not looking at you. “Took you long enough.” You almost black out from rage.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you say, voice flat. “My dorm is on the opposite side of campus.” He hums, barely acknowledging your words, his focus glued to his phone. You take a deep breath, count to three, and pull out your laptop. “Okay. So, the project—”

Before you can even finish, his phone rings. And instead of silencing it, like a normal human being, Sukuna just smirks and answers it, right there in front of you. “Yo,” he says lazily, stretching his arms behind his head. Your eye twitches. The person on the other end—you recognise the voice as Choso—says something that makes Sukuna huff a laugh, shaking his head.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m at the library,” he mutters. “With that chick from class.” Your hand tightens around your pen. So he didn’t even know your name. Great. And you two were supposedly paired for the rest of this semester? You wanted to fucking die. Not even two minutes in, and he’s already testing your patience. Sukuna leans back, grinning as Choso says something else. “Nah, it’s just her,” Sukuna says, completely offhand. “No eye candy here, bro.”

Your grip tightens around your pen. Did this dumbass seriously just say that out loud? In a library? In the middle of your study session? You drop your pen onto the table with a sharp thud, but the sting in your chest lingers. It’s not like you expected anything different from him. It’s not like you cared.

…Except you do. Just a little. Not because you want him to think you’re pretty—fuck no—but because there’s something uniquely humiliating about being dismissed like that. Like your presence is some minor inconvenience he has to tolerate. Your jaw locks, and you square your shoulders, forcing the feeling down. Screw him. You’re not here to impress him. You’re here to get your damn work done. Sukuna finally glances up, raising a brow like he just now realized you’re sitting there. You stare at him, completely done. He hums, completely unbothered, before turning his focus back to his phone. “Relax. You look like someone stuck a stick up your ass.”

“Genuinely do you have a mental illness or some shit?,” you shoot back, your irritation reaching an all-time high. “We have a chemistry project that’s 45% of our grade, and you’re sitting here talking about—”

“Bro, hold on,” Sukuna suddenly says into the receiver, cutting you off mid-rant. He holds his hand up like he’s physically silencing you, turning his head away. “Choso, you hear this? Shorty’s about to pop a blood vessel over some homework. All ‘cause I said she isn’t some eye candy. Women, right?”

Your mouth falls open.

Did he just—

“I— You—”

Your brain short-circuits for a second, tripping over the sheer audacity of him. Sukuna leans back in his chair, grinning up at you like a complete bastard. “You need to get laid or something?” A beat of silence. Your entire body stills. And then, without hesitation, you lean forwards and rip his phone out of his hand and slam it face-down in front of you.

“The fuck?” Sukuna scoffs, finally looking genuinely surprised for the first time all day. Then, his smirk returns, and he props his chin on his hand, clearly amused. “You got some nerve,” he muses. 

“And you have the IQ of a fucking vegetable, but we’re still here.”

Sukuna huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Damn. What’s got your panties in a twist?”

“My panties in a twist?” you scoff, staring at him in pure disbelief. “You refuse to work, you talk shit about the way I look while I’m sitting right here, and you—”

“You are sitting right there, and you’re not really hot enough for me to notice.” he interrupts smoothly. “What, you want me to lie?” 

Your eye twitches. “You could at least pretend to have an ounce of human decency—”

“Pfft,” Sukuna snorts. “For you?” Your nostrils flare. Sukuna just grins. “Oh, come on,” he drawls, waving a hand. “You’re taking this way too personally.”

“How—” You press your fingers to your temples, inhaling sharply. “How else am I supposed to take it when you—”

“And you,” Sukuna counters casually, “are a fucking headache.” You slam your hand against the table, startling the people sitting nearby. “At least I’m a headache with a work ethic. You’re a pain in the ass and can’t focus for like what? 2 seconds? Without spacing out.”

“Congrats,” he deadpans. “You want a gold star?”

You want him to get hit by a bus. 

Sukuna shakes his head, leaning back again, still looking far too entertained. “Look, we both know you’re gonna do most of the work anyway,” he says lazily. “So why not just save yourself the stress and accept it?”

“Because this is a group project—”

“Yeah, and I’m in the group. So technically, that counts.” You inhale sharply, barely keeping yourself from lunging across the table.

“Swear to god, bro,” Sukuna snorts, having picked up his phone from where you’d slammed it down, resuming his call with Choso, “I got this chick sending me, like, three nudes back-to-back last night. Shit was insane.”

“You are,” you say, voice flat, “fucking disgusting.” Sukuna smirks, clearly thriving off your irritation. “Oh? Why, ‘cause I get pussy?”

“No,” you snap, willing for your cheeks not to redden with the way he speaks so crudely. “Because we’re supposed to be working.”

He hums, completely unbothered, before turning his focus back to his phone. “Relax. I got time.” You scoff. “Oh, so you do know how deadlines work?”

“Damn,” Sukuna mutters, shaking his head, lips curling into an annoyed frown. “You’re really pressed over this, huh?”

“This is not happening,” you mutter under your breath. “I am not about to let some oversized thug skate his way through a semester while I—”

“Thug?” Sukuna repeats, laughing. “You mean scholar? You hear that, Choso?” He puts his phone on speaker. “She just called me a thug.”

“Yeah, I heard,” Choso’s voice comes through the speaker, lazy and unbothered. “She’s right.” Sukuna snaps his head down at his phone. “The fuck?” 

You bark out a sharp laugh, your first real one of the evening. Sukuna rolls his eyes and hangs up, tossing his phone onto the table with an annoyed click of his tongue. “Choso’s a bitch,” he mutters.

“And you’re a waste of oxygen.” Sukuna grins at you. “You’re a piece of shit.” You snatch your textbook off the table and throw it at him, eye twitching when he easily manages to catch it.

“Oh my god, please kill yourself and do us all a favour” Sukuna laughs at that, tilting his head like he’s genuinely entertained by how close you are to losing your shit. “C’mon,” he drawls, placing his phone face-down on the table—finally giving you some attention. “Let’s hear it, then. What’s our big, bad, super important assignment?”

You exhale sharply, flipping open your notes. “It’s a research-based chemistry project. We’re supposed to choose a topic related to reaction mechanisms and provide a full breakdown of the process. That includes—”

Sukuna leans back. “Boring.” You snap your notebook shut again. “Oh my god.” He grins. “This is really your shit, huh?”

“What?”

“The nerdy little projects,” he teases, resting his chin on his hand. “Bet you’re thriving right now.” You glare. “I am thriving off the idea of you getting hit by a bus.” Sukuna just chuckles, shaking his head. “Violent,” he muses. “Didn’t think you had it in you.” You press your fingers against your temples. “I hate you.”

“Yeah?” He smirks. “That’s cute.” You inhale sharply. Exhale. Inhale again. This is fine. This is totally fine. He is just a guy. This is just a project. And you are not going to let him get under your skin. You open your notebook again, forcing yourself to focus. “Our topic is—”

Sukuna clicks his tongue. “Ooooor,” he interrupts, leaning forward with a lazy smirk, “you can just shut up and do it yourself.”

You pause. You blink at him, barely processing what he just said. He shrugs. “You’re good at this shit. I’m not. Seems fair.” Your jaw clenches. “Haven’t you gotten it through your thick skull? Even if I wanted to, we have to constantly update all the meeting logs, and–.”

Sukuna just smirks wider, cutting you off in true Sukuna fashion. “But it’d be so much easier if you did all of it, wouldn’t it? And those fucking collaboration logs can be faked.” You stare at him. You are going to lose your mind. You are actually going to lose your fucking mind. You inhale one last time, roll your shoulders back, and meet his gaze with renewed determination. “Let’s get one thing straight,” you say, voice sharp. “If you refuse to contribute, I will tell our professor. And you know that they take the reported behaviour for consideration the next time they mark a group assignment from literally any other class, yeah? ”

Sukuna snorts. “Snitch.” You glare harder. “I don’t care.” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head like you’re just so exhausting to deal with.

“Such a pain in the ass,” he mutters, stretching his arms above his head. “But whatever. We’ll see.” 

You stare him down. You know what that means. It means he has no intention of doing shit. You exhale slowly, clenching your jaw. This is going to be the longest semester of your life.

–

You try to keep your composure. You really, really do. But after a week of dealing with Ryomen fucking Sukuna, you’re already at your breaking point. It’s bad enough that he refuses to contribute anything to the project. Bad enough that every time you try to get him to focus, he leans back in his chair like some smug, insufferable prince, making a point to not listen.

“Oh, come on,” he drawls one day in class, stretching lazily in his seat while you sit next to him, barely keeping yourself from strangling him. His shirt rides up just a bit, flashing a sliver of tattooed skin– and a happy trail– and you look away on instinct. He deserves no admiration. “You love this shit. It’s kind of sweet, honestly. Doing all the work for me like this?”

Your grip tightens on your pen, knuckles going white. “I wouldn’t have to if you actually did your part, dumbass.”

Unfortunately, the guy was worse than you had anticipated, so begrudgingly, only once or twice you had taken up his slack, deeming that he wouldn’t get into too much trouble even if you complained to the professor. It wasn’t too bad considering it was just the introductory part of the project, but you would probably complain if he pulled this shit in the middle of the semester when things got serious. Sukuna just smirks. That smirk. The kind that makes you want to throw something at his face. “Do I, though?”

Your eye twitches. “Yes.”

“Because, from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’ve already taken care of most of it.” He gestures lazily to your open notes—your notes, where half the research under his name is written in your own handwriting because you were sick of waiting for him to do it. “Appreciate the help, baby.” Your jaw clenches. “You—”

You exhale sharply, fingers flexing against your notebook. You swear, if murder wasn’t illegal—

Across the table, Choso (They had been lounging here with him even before you had arrived, and you were sleep deprived and tired from the venture to the East wing from your dorm, so you kept your mouth shut about their presence) chuckles. “Damn, Sukuna,” he muses, lips quirking as he glances between the two of you. “She’s really out here doing your degree for you.” Toji snorts. “Shit, at this point, just put her name on your diploma.”

You snap your head toward them, scowling. “I’m not—”

“Oh, but you kinda are,” Sukuna interjects smoothly, smirking. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll make sure to give you a nice lil’ thank you when I graduate.” You glare. “I don’t want your fucking thanks. I want you to do your damn work.” Sukuna just clicks his tongue and leans back, propping his feet up on the chair next to him like he has not a single care in the world. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, so fucking dismissive. “We’ll see.”

—

It gets worse. Because apparently, refusing to do work and making you look like an idiot in front of his friends isn’t enough. No, of course not. Sukuna has to make sure you suffer. So, during one of your scheduled study sessions (during the most odd times of the day), while you’re actively trying to go over the research, Sukuna—in all his dickhead glory—leans back in his chair, tilts his head toward the nearest girl, and flashes that cocky, stupid toothy smile of his.

“Hey,” he purrs, voice dropping into that low, slow tone that has half the campus wrapped around his fucking finger. “You got a pencil?” The girl blinks—clearly flustered—before fumbling through her bag. “Uh—yeah! Yeah, here.” Sukuna smirks, taking it from her fingers way too slowly, thumb brushing against hers. The poor girl sucks in a sharp breath, eyes widening like she’s just touched a live wire. He leans in just slightly, voice dropping to something just for her. “Thanks, cutie. Real lifesaver.”

The girl giggles, twirling a strand of hair between her fingers. “You’re welcome, Sukuna.” You knew he was an asshole. You knew that his stupid, irritating grin made girls fall over themselves. But this? This was just blatant disrespect. You were right there. He was doing this on purpose. And sure enough, when you glance up, Sukuna’s already watching you—mouth twitching, eyes glinting with amusement. You slam your book shut. “Are you done?” Sukuna raises an eyebrow, playing dumb. “What?” You gesture vaguely toward the poor girl, who’s still blushing and dazed from his attention. “With your little… whatever this is?”

His smirk stretches wider. “Jealous?” 

Your nostrils flare. “I’m annoyed.” He hums, twirling the pencil between his fingers. “Could’ve fooled me.” You clench your fists under the table, swallowing the very real urge to dump your coffee on his head. You refuse—refuse—to let him get under your skin. So, instead, you take a breath, roll your shoulders back, and force your voice to stay level. “Are you actually going to contribute today, or should I just log that you didn’t show up?”

Sukuna laughs—loud and unbothered. “Damn,” he drawls, leaning forward on his elbows. “You’re kinda a hardass, huh?” You stare him down, unwavering. “And you’re a waste of fucking time.” His grin widens, something sharper, meaner curling at the edges of it.

“Now, that’s just mean,” he muses, tapping the pencil against the table. “What happened, sweetheart? You just pissed off, or do you just need to get fucked? Seriously with the way you act so fuckin’ bitchy all the time, I swear you act like you haven’t had dick in ages.”

You still for half a second. Then your jaw locks. Your entire body runs hot, blood boiling, because what the fuck? You’re already on edge, and now he’s going there? You let out a short, sharp laugh, shaking your head. “You speak so disgustingly, you know that? So weird and perverted...” Sukuna leans back again, sprawled out, totally relaxed. “What? I’m just saying.” He gestures vaguely in your direction. “Maybe that’s why you’re so uptight all the time.” Across the room, the girl from earlier glances over, eyes flicking between you and Sukuna like she’s witnessing something amusing. You refuse to give her—or him—the satisfaction. You inhale sharply, steadying yourself. And then, voice cold and clipped, you meet his gaze dead-on.

“Do your fucking work, Sukuna.” He grins. And then, of course, he doesn’t.

–

The lecture hall is freezing, the air-conditioning cranked too high like the university is trying to keep students awake through sheer environmental hostility. It doesn’t work. You’re exhausted. After back-to-back shifts at work, an avalanche of coursework, and the black hole of stress that is your chem project with Sukuna, you’re running on fumes. The moment you step into the lecture hall, your eyes instinctively scan for the back row. If—when—you inevitably start nodding off, you don’t want the professor clocking it. You sink into a chair near the corner, stretching your legs out with a sigh. Heavy-lidded eyes drift toward the front, barely focusing on the professor setting up slides. You could close your eyes just for a second—

The seat next to you creaks. A familiar presence drops beside you, and you know who it is before you even turn your head. Sukuna. Of course. You don’t acknowledge him. Maybe if you ignore him, he’ll take the hint and—

His knee knocks against yours, jostling you just as your head dips forward. Your body tenses, and you snap a glare in his direction. He’s manspreading like he owns the place, legs sprawled wide, one arm slung over the back of your chair like this is his personal space and not a public lecture hall. He’s wearing one of those long-sleeve compression shirts that clings to his frame, every inked line of muscle pressing against the fabric. Not that you care. But the sheer arrogance of it is annoying. You scowl, shifting as far away from him as possible. “Why are you here?”

“Dunno,” he drawls, voice low and amused. “Felt like it.”  You roll your eyes and turn back toward the front, trying to focus on the professor’s voice. Your brain is barely keeping up with the lecture, exhaustion pressing against your skull like a weight. Sukuna doesn’t let up. He leans in just enough to make his presence known. “Damn,” he muses, eyes dragging over your face with something unreadable. “You look rough. Didn’t get the chance to put on concealer or whatever you women use to cover up that?” The words land heavier than they should. It’s the way he says it. Careless. Blunt. No humor to soften the edge.  And you know you’re not ugly– the opposite in fact, but–

Your face drops before you can stop it. You don’t have the energy to fight back today. You just swallow whatever sharp retort you could say, fix your gaze on the front of the lecture hall, and pretend like he doesn’t exist.  Sukuna notices. For the first time in ever, he doesn’t get the reaction he expects. No snark, no glare, no half-assed insult thrown back at him. Just… silence. You don’t even look at him. Something weird stirs in his chest, something unfamiliar and fucking irritating. It sits in the back of his throat, in the pit of his stomach, but he ignores it—brushes it off like it’s nothing. He doesn’t say another word for the rest of class.

–

By the time the second week of working with Sukuna rolls around, you’re wrecked. Sleep-deprived, overworked, running purely on caffeine and sheer spite. Between your job, your other classes, and this hellish project, there isn’t a single moment to breathe. You’ve been taking shifts at work to make rent, pulling late nights cramming for exams, and somehow, despite your best efforts, Sukuna is still making your life miserable. The last thing you need is another study session with him. You drag yourself into the East Wing Library, exhausted and bitter about it. The East Wing is so far from your usual haunts, practically on the other side of campus, and the walk here in the late afternoon heat is hellish. You mumble complaints under your breath the entire way—something about how your feet hurt, how this library is ugly anyway, how he should’ve come to your spot instead—but you know Sukuna won’t care. He probably won’t even listen.

Sure enough, he’s already lounging at one of the study tables when you arrive, acting like he’s been here for hours when in reality, he probably sat down two minutes ago. He’s slouched in his chair, all sprawled out and insufferable, wearing that same damn compression shirt that makes him look more like a gym rat than a student. His legs are spread so wide he’s practically taking up half the table. In fact, the table looks small compared to how long his legs are. You resist the urge to drop your bag onto his lap just to make him move. Instead, you sink into the chair across from him and immediately rest your forehead against your palm. “Kill me,” you mutter.

Sukuna barely acknowledges you. “You look like you’re already halfway there.”

You sigh heavily. You don’t even have the energy to glare at him. “Gee, thanks.” He’s watching you. You can feel it. That lazy, assessing stare, like he’s about to say something that’ll make you want to slap him. Something that’ll make that weird, uncomfortable feeling go down your spine.

And then—

Nothing. You brace yourself for the insult, for the inevitable Damn, you look fucked up but it never comes. He just clicks his tongue, looking back at his laptop screen, eyebrows furrowed. You squint at him. Weird. But whatever. You don’t have the time or patience to dissect the mysteries of Ryomen Sukuna’s behavior. You flip open your notes, rubbing at your eyes. “Okay, let’s just get this over with,” you mumble. “I still have an essay to write after this.”

Sukuna stretches, the fabric of his compression shirt shifting as he raises his arms above his head. His shirt rides up slightly, revealing a sliver of inked skin carved just above his hip. You don’t mean to notice, but you do—because of course, he’s the type of asshole who shows off his tattoos like they’re a personality trait. You snap your eyes away before he catches you looking. “Relax, woman,” he drawls, voice dripping with lazy amusement. “No need to be so fucking tense.”

Your grip tightens around your pen. Woman? Again? You level him with an exasperated glare. “Tense? I’ve been doing our project by myself while you sit on your ass, and I’m the one who’s tense?” You scoff. “And stop calling me woman, you sound like you get life advice from Andrew Tate.” That earns you a sharp, wolfish grin. “Are you not a woman?” he counters smoothly, tilting his head. Before you can answer, his eyes deliberately drop—slow, pointed—trailing down to your chest. He doesn’t even try to be subtle about it, and the sheer audacity of this man has you gaping at him, heat rushing to your face in a mixture of anger and secondhand embarrassment. Your jaw clenches, your hands curling into fists beneath the table. “Are you fucking serious?” you grit out, voice low and sharp.

Sukuna just smirks, lazy and unbothered, flicking his eyes back up to yours with a knowing look. “What? Just checking.”

You resist the urge to lunge across the table and strangle him on the spot. Just breathe. Don’t get expelled for homicide. 

“Also, Andrew Tate? Seriously, woman? What, you think I’d listen to a broke, bald bitch like him?” Sukuna leans forward, arms resting on the table, shoulders broad and imposing. “You’ve got some real shitty assumptions about me.”

“I’ve got accurate assumptions about you,” you correct.

He just smirks. “You say that like I’ve done nothing.”

You glare harder. “You have done nothing.”

“Have I?” he challenges, cocking a brow. He tilts his laptop screen toward you, and there, staring back at you, is a shockingly filled-out document. Your eyes flicker across the paragraphs—coherent, formatted, and even cited.

You blink. Pause. Stare at him like he’s just grown another head. Because for the past week, this man has contributed exactly two sentences to the project. “…And?” you say, deadpan. “What do you want? A gold star? A participation trophy?” Sukuna leans back, manspreading like the chair was custom-built just for him. “Don’t need validation from you, sweetheart.”

“Good,” you shoot back. “Because you’re not getting any.” He lets out an exaggerated sigh, rubbing a hand down his face like you’re the exhausting one here. “Look, I don’t see what the big deal is. The project’s coming along fine.” You inhale sharply. Count to five. Resist the urge to fling your notebook at his fat head. “It’s coming along fine because I’ve been doing all the work.”

Sukuna shrugs, unconcerned. “Teamwork makes the dream work.” You stare at him. A long, silent, murderous stare. 

“You make me wanna end my life,” you finally say, voice utterly devoid of emotion. He grins, teeth sharp and infuriating. “I know.” You exhale slowly through your nose, willing yourself not to commit homicide. Instead, you rub your temples and look back at your notes. “Let’s just finish this. I don’t want to be here all night.” Sukuna hums, tapping at his laptop. “You sound so eager to spend time with me. Desperate?”

“Oh, absolutely,” you deadpan. “It’s the highlight of my week.”

“I knew it.” He smirks. “You wanna spend the night with me, hmm? Naughty.”

You actually throw a pen at him this time. He dodges effortlessly, laughing under his breath. “Fucking finally,” you mutter. “Maybe now you’ll shut—”

“Shhh!”

You both freeze. The librarian—an older woman with a stern face and sharp eyes—is glaring at you from the front desk. You and Sukuna exchange glances. “You’re the one being loud,” you whisper harshly. Sukuna raises an eyebrow. “I’m the one being loud?”

“Yes, you—”

“Out.” The librarian’s voice cuts through the air like a blade. You and Sukuna both go silent.  And then—

“…Shit,” Sukuna mutters, closing his laptop. You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You are such a waste of time.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He stands, stretching. “Let’s go, dumbass. You can yell at me somewhere else.” You glare at him as you gather your things. “I will be yelling at you somewhere else.” Sukuna smirks, shoving his hands into his pockets as he saunters toward the exit. “Can’t wait.” You storm out of the library with Sukuna trailing behind you, still looking disgustingly relaxed for someone who just got thrown out of a public study space. You wish she had thrown him out alone. “Dick,” you mutter under your breath, shoving your laptop into your bag as you walk. Your head throbs with exhaustion, and the last thing you need is him making this night even worse.

Behind you, Sukuna hums, amused. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Your steps falter for half a second before you pick up the pace again. He, of course, notices. "You're so fucking touchy today," he drawls, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he strolls beside you, the very picture of unbothered arrogance. "On your period?" Your eye twitches. You suck in a sharp breath through your nose, gripping the strap of your bag so hard it might snap. "Okay, we're going to the study lounge near my dorm," you say, tone clipped.

Sukuna groans. Loudly. Like you're torturing him. 

"The hell? Why?"

"Because you got us kicked out," you snap. "And we haven’t even done half of what we were supposed to get through today." Sukuna clicks his tongue in irritation but doesn’t argue further, shoving his hands into his pockets as he follows behind you. His pace is slower than yours, like this entire walk is beneath him, like he’s graciously putting up with it. You can practically feel his annoyance radiating off of him, thick and palpable in the evening air.

The east wing is far. Too far. You’re used to it by now—your classes are scattered across campus, your dorm inconveniently placed, and your schedule an absolute disaster. Between balancing coursework, shifts at your part-time job, and somehow squeezing in study sessions, your days bleed into each other in a never-ending cycle of exhaustion. And because Sukuna’s the most infuriating person alive, he’s been forcing you to make this trek every damn day, dragging you out to the main library just so he can half-ass his way through this project in a space that he prefers. You’ve followed along because you refuse to let this assignment tank, but every second spent with him is another test of patience you’re not sure you’ll pass. So when, predictably, about ten minutes into the walk, he lets out an exaggerated, loud huff of irritation, you already know something stupid is about to leave his mouth.

"Are we still walking?" he grumbles, scowling at the path ahead. "This is taking so fucking long." Your eye twitches. You keep walking, fists clenched at your sides, trying—trying—to ignore him. But he doesn’t stop. Because of course he doesn’t.

"This is stupid," he mutters. "Should've just stayed at the fucking library. Or better yet, we could’ve just worked at my place—"

And that’s it. That’s the last straw. You snap.

"I do this every day because of you!"

The words come out harsher, sharper than you intended, but you don’t care. You whirl around to glare at him, eyes blazing, voice rising louder than it should, this late at night. "You think this is taking too fucking long? You made me do this every night. You insisted on working at the damn library. You refuse to meet anywhere else because apparently, my dorm study lounge isn’t good enough for you!" You huff out a breath, heart pounding in your chest. "So yeah, Sukuna, it is a long walk. And guess what? I do this every single day while you sit on your ass and complain!" Sukuna stops mid-step. His mouth is half-open, clearly ready to throw some cocky remark back at you—except nothing comes out. For once, he’s quiet. That, more than anything, unnerves you. But you don’t stick around to decipher the look on his face. You turn back around and keep walking, jaw clenched, shoulders tense, because if you don’t, you might actually lose your mind. And this project isn’t worth a murder charge.

Sukuna watches as you keep walking, your back rigid with frustration, your fingers curled so tightly around the strap of your bag it looks like the only thing anchoring you upright. It’s only now, in the dim glow of the overhead lights of the university hallways, that he actually sees you. The exhaustion carved deep into the lines of your face, etched into the tight pull of your brows and the faint downturn of your lips. The way your steps drag just slightly, like your body is moments away from giving in but you refuse to let it. The dark circles beneath your eyes, barely concealed by whatever concealer you must’ve swiped on this morning. 

(Yes, you ended up feeling the tiniest bit hurt and put some on the next time you saw him)

You look tired. Not the kind of tired that comes from a late night or an early morning. No, this is the exhaustion that settles deep in your bones, that lingers even after you’ve slept, the kind that never really leaves. And then there’s something else—something off. It’s not like you to get this quiet after snapping at him. Normally, you’d keep going, pushing, throwing words at him like knives, sharp and ruthless, waiting for him to hurl them right back. That’s how it’s always been between you two. You say something snarky, he says something worse. You get pissed off, he laughs. It’s a cycle. A game.

But right now? Right now, you don’t fight. You don’t even look at him. Sukuna exhales sharply through his nose, irritation flickering beneath his skin—but it’s not directed at you. Not this time. He shoves his hands in his pockets, jaw clenching, his usual smirk nowhere to be seen. And for the rest of the walk, he doesn’t say a word. No complaints. No grumbling. No sarcastic remarks. Just silence.

–

The place is smaller than the library, tucked into the corner of your dorm building, but at least it’s quiet. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, and only a few other students are scattered around, focused on their own work. You drop into a chair unceremoniously, opening your laptop with a sigh. Sukuna takes the seat across from you, stretching his legs out obnoxiously under the table until they almost bump into yours. You kick him. He smirks. “Feisty.”

"Shut up."

For the next half hour, you work in silence. Sukuna pretends to read something on his screen, but you can feel his eyes flicking to you every so often, assessing. You try not to think about it. It’s quiet for a moment, and then—

"You formatted this wrong," he says.  Your head snaps up. "What?" Sukuna tilts his screen toward you, pointing lazily at a section of your document. "The citation. APA, not MLA, genius."  You stare at him, brows knitting together. "Why the hell do you know that?" Sukuna shrugs, leaning back in his chair. "What, you think you're the only one with a functioning brain?"

"Functioning is a strong word," you mutter, fixing the citation. He snorts, but then, because he’s him, he adds, “I mean, makes sense you’d fuck that up. You look half-dead.” Your eye twitches. "And you look like a walking midlife crisis, but you don't hear me pointing it out every two seconds." Sukuna grins, sharp and unrepentant. “Liar. You know I look good.”

“Ugly.”

“Sexy.”

"Say that again and I'll stab you with my pen." 

It’s late by the time you finally close your laptop, rubbing at your temples. The day has dragged on forever, and the last thing you want is to keep dealing with him. You shove your things into your bag, ready to leave, when Sukuna—still leaned back in his chair, still looking infuriatingly relaxed—says, "Tch. Whatever. We’ll just meet here next time." You pause. Blink at him. "Huh?" He doesn’t look at you when he says it, like this entire conversation is so beneath him. "The hell, are you deaf? I said we’ll just meet here next time. Less walking." You stare, uncertain of what to make of that. Of him saying anything at all.

Then—

"Uh. Okay," you mumble. Sukuna snorts, pushing himself up from his chair, rolling his shoulders like this entire night has been a mild inconvenience to him and nothing more. “Try not to die of exhaustion before then.”

You flip him off.

He grins.

–

The dorm study lounge in your building isn’t anything special—just a couple of couches, a cluster of wobbly desks, and chairs that groan when anyone shifts. But it’s quiet, it’s close, and more importantly, it’s not the goddamn East Wing library. You’re already seated with your laptop open when Sukuna strolls in like he owns the place, hoodie thrown over his shoulder, compression shirt clinging to him in that casually smug way that makes you want to set your notebook on fire.

“Damn. You live like this?” he says instead of greeting, glancing around at the peeling posters and flickering overhead light.

“You’ve been here three times now,” you mutter, not looking up. “Get over it.” To your surprise, he actually sits down and opens his laptop. No dramatic sighs, no drawn-out complaints. Just pulls up the shared doc and starts typing. You side-eye him suspiciously. “Wait. You’re actually doing work?”

Sukuna doesn’t even look at you. “Told you I’m not completely useless.”

“You literally did none of the intro. Or the background research. Or the—”

He turns slightly, eyes narrowed. “Jesus. You want me to write your acknowledgements too?”

You roll your eyes and keep typing, but you can’t help the way your gaze flicks back to his screen every so often. He’s doing it. Slowly, a little messily, but he’s actually doing the work. You hate how that’s kind of impressive. The door creaks open an hour in and Toji saunters in with a protein bar in one hand and Choso trailing behind him, hoodie half-on like he got distracted putting it on. “Yo,” Toji says, tossing himself onto the arm of your chair like there’s no concept of personal space. “This where the grind’s happening?” 

Choso raises a brow at Sukuna. “Didn’t think you actually meant it when you said you were working on your project.” Sukuna scoffs, not even looking up from the screen. “Don’t start.” They pull up chairs, half-invited, half-ignored. Somehow, you end up the only person who seems to be actually working while the other three devolve into semi-productive chaos. Eventually, the conversation drifts—like it always does when boys are left alone with too much time and not enough supervision.

“Yo, did you see that blonde on the cheer squad last game?” Toji starts, popping open a protein bar like it’s part of the ritual. “The one with the ribbon thing in her hair. Face card was solid.” Choso smirks, still half-focused on his phone. “I think she followed me on Insta. Or her friend did. Can’t tell—cheer girls got that same face filter thing going on.”

You hum under your breath, noncommittal. You’ve learned how to tune this out. Let the background noise of testosterone and ego bounce off while you focus on your screen. But then—

Choso glances up, flicking his gaze between you and Sukuna like he’s just had a thought worth sharing. “Actually… Sukuna’s got the best deal out of all of us.” You pause your typing. Slightly. Toji quirks a brow. “How you figure?”

“He gets to sit across from her every day,” Choso says casually, jerking his chin in your direction. “Dude’s been staring at that face for what, like a week straight?” Your head snaps up. “Excuse me?”

Choso lifts both hands in mock surrender. “Just saying. When you’re not chewing him out, you’re actually kinda—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Just gives a slow, meaningfully raised brow like the conclusion is obvious. Toji lets out a low whistle, the corner of his mouth twitching. “No, wait—he’s right. You’ve got that whole mean girl, academic weapon, doesn’t-look-up-in-lectures thing going on.” You just blink at them, caught somewhere between wanting to melt into your chair or hurl your laptop at both their heads. Sukuna, up until now half-listening while scrolling on his screen, exhales like this whole conversation is beneath him. “Shut the fuck up.” His voice is flat. Lazy. Like he's bored with their entire existence. But his eyes flick up—and linger on you just a beat too long. There’s no smirk. No wink. Just that unreadable look again. Heavy-lidded. Slightly narrowed.

Toji raises a brow. “Struck a nerve?” Choso glances between you and Sukuna, curious now. “Damn. Didn’t know you were the territorial type.” Sukuna doesn’t even rise to it. Just drags a hand through his hair and mutters, “You idiots hear yourselves talk?” That seems to be enough. Toji snorts and mutters a half-apology under his breath. “Alright, alright. Chill.”

Choso shrugs. “She’s still bad though. No take-backs.” You clear your throat and mutter, “Thanks… I guess?”

No one hears it except Sukuna, whose gaze shifts back to his laptop—but his ears are slightly pink now. Not that he’d admit it. And just like that, the boys forget they ever had a filter. They’re back to talking about the football coach and some frat party coming up next weekend. You, meanwhile, keep your eyes glued to your screen—but your skin feels hotter, like that look Sukuna gave you never quite left. You try to refocus on your screen, but your heart’s still thudding in your chest in a way you hate. You don’t want to be flustered. Especially not over Sukuna, who has the emotional depth of a spoon. Still, when the session winds down and Toji and Choso finally get bored and wander off, Sukuna leans back and says, with the same bored tone he uses when talking about the weather, “I’ll see you here again next week. I’ll finish up some of the work at my place before I come, so we don’t hafta sit here on our asses long enough for these idiots to show up again.”

You blink. “Uh… okay.” He doesn’t wait for a response. Just slings his bag over his shoulder, walks off like he hasn’t just stunned you into silence with the barest sliver of consideration, and mutters under his breath on the way out:

“Better chairs anyway.” You stare after him. Annoyed. Confused. Unsettled. Slightly amused. And a little less sure about how much of a dick he really is.

–

It’s been three weeks since you started meeting in the dorm building’s study lounge. The sessions are no less exhausting, but they’ve become… bearable. You still argue. He’s still insufferable. But Sukuna actually does the work now. Not without the occasional passive-aggressive comment or that maddening little smirk when he catches you getting flustered. But he contributes. Sometimes he even takes initiative—like today, when you arrived and found he’d already opened the shared doc and annotated the latest journal article. Miracles, apparently, do happen.

You're both seated on opposite sides of the same table, a precarious peace holding between the clack of your keys and the scratch of his pen against paper. Sukuna's in a black hoodie—which really emphasises how broad his shoulders are–paired with some low-slung sweatpants. He’s got one leg up on the chair, knee almost brushing the table’s underside, completely manspreaded in a way that takes up far more space than necessary. Typical. You’ve tuned it all out. Almost. The only sound in the lounge is the soft hum of the vending machine and the low rustle of paper. That is, until your phone buzzes.

You glance down.

[8:37 PM] Yuna:

pls tell me ur free next friday night frat party at Theta house i need a plus one u owe meee

You pause. Theta house. The name sparks something in your brain—a half-formed association, faint and unimportant until now. You’ve heard it muttered in passing, caught glimpses of its parties plastered all over people’s Instagram stories. Flashy. Loud. Too many red solo cups and too little self-respect. But more importantly: it rings a specific bell. Something familiar. Your eyes flicker back to the message on your screen, rereading Yuna’s plea. Your brows furrow. You bite the inside of your cheek, lips tugging downward as you try to decide if this is worth the impending social fatigue, or if you can just ghost her and fake a fever. Maybe a paper cut. Across the table, the scratch of pen on paper falters. You don’t even notice until Sukuna’s voice cuts in, sharp and dry. 

“What’re you making that face for?” he asks without looking up. Flat, disinterested, like your expression is an inconvenience. You blink, mildly startled. “...What face?”

“That weird one.” He finally lifts his head, narrowing his eyes at you with vague irritation. “Like you just found out you forgot to pay your car registration or somethin’.” Your mouth opens, closes. “It’s just a text,” you say eventually, letting out a quiet sigh as you flip your phone facedown. “My friend’s dragging me to a frat party next week. She needs a plus-one.” At that, Sukuna stills. Not dramatically. Just... a subtle pause. His elbow stops bouncing. His pen hovers above the page.

“What frat?” he asks. The question is casual, but his gaze sharpens ever so slightly. You hesitate. “…Theta house. I think.”

He snorts. Loud and unmistakable. “That’s mine.” 

Your head snaps up. “What?”

He leans back lazily, one arm thrown over the back of the chair, looking maddeningly relaxed. “Theta. That’s my frat. Toji, mine and Cho’s. Didn’t ya know? They were talkin’ about it before.” You blink, momentarily at a loss. The realization hits with a muted thud—of course. It all makes sense now. The flashy parties, the obnoxiously loud music every other weekend, the guys who walk around campus with too much cologne and too few responsibilities. Of course he lives there.

“Oh,” you say finally. It hangs there—awkward, brittle, like a glass ornament someone forgot to put away after Christmas. You both look back down at your notes, pretending the moment never happened. You reread the same sentence in your textbook three times and still can’t register what it says. The silence isn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it isn’t comfortable either. Just... weird. Like there’s something in the air that neither of you wants to acknowledge. Then, after a minute, Sukuna exhales slowly and leans further back in his seat.

“You should swing by,” he says offhandedly. So casual it sounds like a throwaway line.

You glance up. “Huh?”

“The party,” he says, eyes flicking briefly toward you, then back to the ceiling. “Your friend’s already going. Might as well.” You study him. His expression is unreadable—calm, indifferent. No trace of smugness, no expectation behind the offer. It’s almost too nonchalant. Like he wouldn’t care either way. You narrow your eyes a little. “Are you… inviting me?”

He shrugs. “You’re not special. I’m inviting everyone.” Your lips twitch at that, but you don’t call him out. “Right. Of course.”

Still, you hear your voice soften slightly. 

“I’ll think about it.”

Sukuna hums in response, eyes drifting downward—right to your hoodie, baggy enough to cover you from neck to knee, sleeves tugged over your hands. You can practically see the judgment forming. “Just don’t show up dressed like this,” he mutters, the corner of his mouth twitching. You snort before you can stop yourself. A short, surprised laugh bursts out of you. “Seriously?”

He gives you a deadpan look. “It’s a party, not a cult meeting.” You raise your brows, amused. “Clearly, you don’t know me at all if you think I dress like this everywhere.” Sukuna tilts his head, studying you like you just issued a challenge. “So you do have real clothes.”

“I’m a woman of mystery,” you say smugly, folding your arms. “You don’t get to know.” A rare smirk twitches onto his face—brief, dry, almost like he’s trying not to be amused. “That sounds like a yes.” You roll your eyes, grabbing your highlighter again. “Focus on organic chemistry, casanova.”

He chuckles under his breath but doesn’t argue, returning to his notes. The mood shifts again—easy now, fluid in a way you didn’t expect. The banter lingers, like a residue in the air, and for once, you don’t feel like you’re dodging landmines when you speak. You work in silence for a while longer, but it’s not the same brittle quiet from before. It’s something softer. Settled. And maybe—for just a second—it doesn’t feel like you’re enemies anymore. Not friends, either. But not enemies. When you finally pack up for the night, Sukuna doesn’t say anything. He just slings his bag over his shoulder, glances at you once, then jerks his chin toward the door like let’s go. You fall into step beside him, not speaking, the click of the lounge door swinging shut behind you.  You don’t even know how it happened. How somehow he waited for you by the staircase that led up to your dorms before departing back to where he lived. The hallway is quiet. The air, cool and crisp, smells faintly of late-night ramen and floor cleaner. You say nothing. But somehow, that moment stretches longer than it should. And it stays with you. All the way back to your dorm.

–

“Yu— I don’t know,” you say, pulling at one of the spaghetti straps of your top and glancing at your reflection in her full-length mirror, “I like wearing shit like this but… don’t you think it’s too much for a frat party?” Your voice comes out unsure, tinged with that all-too-familiar pre-party doubt that creeps in five minutes before you’re supposed to leave. You’re still adjusting the fabric over your chest—this stupid, tiny top that clings a little too perfectly to your figure, exposing just enough skin to make you question if you’ll even make it through the front door without second-guessing everything. The bra underneath? Completely unintentional. You didn’t even mean to match it—had just grabbed something clean and vaguely push-up-ish from the drawer, but of course, it had to be your most expensive set. Lacy, pink, and not remotely subtle. Victoria’s Secret, you realize with mild betrayal, had made your boobs look criminally good. Like, pause-a-man’s-conversation good.

The top itself wasn’t the issue—it was cropped, sure, but cute. Flimsy fabric and soft color, something you could probably dress down if you were pairing it with anything other than this damn skirt. The skirt was what had you feeling like you were in over your head. And it wasn’t even yours. It was Yuna’s. A distressed, light-wash denim mini that was practically a belt. It hugged every curve, curved a little more than you were used to, and sat low enough on your hips to make you feel a tiny bit scandalous with every breath. If you shifted too fast, it felt like it’d ride up and expose everything. And with the panties that came with your VS set—thin, lacy, and technically classified as lingerie—you felt dangerously close to flashing someone if the wind so much as thought about picking up.

“I look like I’m trying to seduce someone’s dad,” you mutter.

“Oh my god,” Yuna gasps from behind you, eyes wide as she stops in her tracks. “You look so fucking hot. I’m not hearing any complaints about this.” She spins you around, hands on your shoulders as she takes in the full outfit like she’s styling you for a Vogue shoot. Her perfectly manicured fingers trail to the hem of your skirt, and with a gleam in her eye, she gives your butt a dramatic, playful slap.

You glare at her. “Can you not grope me right now?”

“Sorry,” she says, completely unapologetic. “You just look so good. Like, painfully good. Like—‘oops, I just made that guy trip over a keg because I walked by’ good.” You attempt to give her your best unimpressed stare, but it’s hard to hold when she looks that excited—and especially when she’s standing there in a sparkly, strapless top that’s practically glued to her skin and a skirt shorter than yours. Not to mention the rhinestone eyeliner and lip gloss she reapplied twice already. You sigh, defeated, because if she looked hot, and you looked hot, maybe it wasn’t the worst idea to just embrace it.

“Ugh, okay, fine,” you mutter. “You look sexy too.”

“So do you,” she grins, squeezing your wrist before spinning toward the mirror to grab her purse. “We’re gonna be the baddest bitches there.”

You snort. “That’s not exactly a high bar. I saw someone show up to one of these in a Pikachu onesie.”

“Exactly,” she says, throwing a jacket over her shoulder. “We’ll be legends by comparison.” Despite yourself, you laugh—and when you turn back to the mirror, something about the reflection feels less terrifying than it did five minutes ago. The outfit was bold, sure. But with Yuna beside you, her energy electric and effortless, you could feel yourself slipping into that mindset, too. The one where you were allowed to be hot without apologizing for it. You slip on your shoes, grab your phone, and follow Yuna out of the dorm. The hallway’s quiet, dimly lit with that weird yellow lighting all college buildings have after 10 PM. You both walk down to the street where your Uber is already waiting, music faintly thumping from the frat row just a few blocks away. And for once, you’re not dreading it. You’re a little nervous, maybe. But with your favorite person beside you, in outfits that could start wars, heading into a night with no plans other than chaos—you’re ready.

The Uber ride is a blur of Yuna’s makeup touch-ups, last-minute accessory debates, and Spotify blaring a throwback remix that has both of you scream-singing the chorus. The nerves in your stomach ease up a little more with each passing minute. Maybe it’s the way Yuna keeps hyping you up or how good the outfit actually looks under the glow of the passing streetlights—but by the time the car pulls up in front of Theta house, you’re no longer on the verge of changing outfits or ghosting the night entirely. The frat house looms ahead like every other frat house you’ve ever seen—loud music already spilling out from the open door, string lights tangled across the porch, people clustered out front with red cups in hand like it’s a high school movie come to life. You can hear someone whoop as a beer pong shot lands across the front lawn, and someone else yells “Take it off!” from an upstairs window. 

Yuna’s eyes sparkle. “Home sweet home,” she says, linking her arm through yours. Inside, it’s chaotic—but weirdly cozy. Warm. The air smells like cheap beer, cologne, and weed, the floors already sticky under your heels. There’s a crowd around the living room-turned-dance-floor, another bottlenecking at the kitchen where a keg is set up beside a counter full of jungle juice and liquor. You spot a couple of people you vaguely know from class or mutuals through Yuna—most of them already tipsy, greeting her with hugs and loud compliments. Someone hands you a drink you don’t ask for, and you take it anyway, sipping something vaguely fruity and deceptively strong. The thrum of music settles in your chest, rattling the floorboards beneath your feet, and for the first time in weeks—maybe even months—you feel something close to relaxed. You’re halfway to the kitchen to grab a chaser when it happens.

You turn a corner and bump into someone—shoulder to chest. Solid. Firm. Tall enough that you instinctively glance up before you even register who it is.

Sukuna. He looks down at you, expression unreadable for a moment—until his eyes very obviously drop from your face to the low neckline of your top. And linger. There’s the barest flicker of something—surprise? amusement?—in his eyes, but it’s gone too fast to confirm. You step back, blinking. “Oh my god. You are so weird.”

He lifts a brow. “Excuse me?”

“You’re literally checking me out like I’m a Victoria’s Secret window display,” you deadpan, tugging your top slightly higher—not that it helps much.

“You wore that and expected no one to look?” he says, voice dry and annoyingly smooth. His eyes flick lazily down again. “Also, hate to break it to you, but your bra’s doing a lot of heavy lifting right now.”

You scoff. “You’re actually such a freak.” He shrugs, tilting the water bottle in his hand toward you. “Not denying it.” You’re about to roll your eyes and walk away, but then he says it—so nonchalantly it barely registers at first.

“You look nice, though.”

You freeze mid-step.

“…What?”

His mouth quirks up slightly, like he didn’t just toss a grenade into the conversation. “You heard me.” 

You stare at him, trying to gauge if he’s mocking you. But there’s no smug grin, no teasing lilt. Just that lazy drawl, that unreadable expression that always keeps you guessing. You fold your arms, shifting your weight to one hip. “Well,” you say slowly, “clearly you don’t know what to do when I’m not wearing my usual two layers of oversized fabric.”

Sukuna snorts. “Thought you were gonna roll up in your campus hoodie again. Kind of a shame, actually. I miss how it swallowed your whole body. You looked like a walking laundry pile.”

“Wow,” you deadpan. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“I try.”

You take a slow sip from your drink, hiding the small grin tugging at your lips. “So this is what you’re like when you’re not being the biggest dick on the planet.”

“I’m not the biggest dick, although I’d say I have the biggest dick” he retorts with a snicker. “You’re just distracting now.”

You blink. “Distracting?”

He shrugs again, way too casual about the whole thing. “You look good. I’m not blind.” You glance around to make sure no one’s listening, then mutter, “You’re way more tolerable when there’s alcohol involved.”

“Yeah?” He raises an eyebrow. “You’re way more tolerable when you’re not scowling at me for breathing too loud.” You glare. “That happened once.”

“It happened twice.”

“Once,” you insist.

He just smirks and takes a sip from the water bottle in his hands. His gaze flicks past you, toward the hallway, and he jerks his chin slightly. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to some people who won’t talk about your bra.” You narrow your eyes. “Is that your idea of an apology?”

He smirks again, already walking off. “Take it or leave it.” You roll your eyes and follow—only because your drink’s almost empty and the kitchen’s in that direction anyway. Obviously. And maybe—just maybe—because being around him like this, when he’s not being a complete jackass, isn’t the worst thing in the world. At least not tonight. Sukuna leads you through the crowd like he’s done this a million times before—which he probably has. You catch a couple of people eyeing him as he walks by, and you wonder if it’s because he’s hot or because he radiates that unapproachable energy like it’s cologne.

“This is…?” someone asks when you both approach a small group gathered around a tall keg table. He jerks a thumb toward you lazily. “My chem partner.” You resist the urge to roll your eyes at the title. “Hi,” you say instead, a little wave as you flash a quick grin.

“Yo, you’re in Shimizu’s class too? That woman’s a menace.”

“Tell me about it,” you groan. “I swear she adds extra steps to procedures just for fun.” Someone laughs. “You actually talk to her? I just fake nod through half of her lectures.” You slip into conversation easily after that, bouncing off the group's energy. You’ve always been extroverted when you’re comfortable, and it’s oddly easy here, surrounded by strangers who are just buzzed enough to be nice. It’s even easier when you catch Sukuna watching the group banter from a short distance, sipping from his water bottle again, his expression unreadable.  You break away to get another drink, winding toward the makeshift bar on the patio. The music's loud, the air sticky with alcohol and cologne, and just as you reach for a clean cup, a shoulder brushes into yours.

“Shit—”

You turn, and there he is again. Ryomen Sukuna. Up close this time. “Jesus, what is your problem?” you mutter, looking up at him. “Do you teleport?” He looks unfazed. “You walked into me.”

You snort. “You walked into me.”

He doesn’t argue. Just leans slightly back and lets his eyes flick down, over your outfit, and—yep. Not subtle. Not even trying to be. Your eyes narrow. 

“You’re such a creep. I don’t care if I’m slightly drunk, I can definitely tell you’re staring at my boobs.” He scoffs, openly amused. “Well, sorry. I’m a man. And those are practically fighting for their lives in that top.” You gasp, smacking his arm. “You’re disgusting.”

He shrugs. “And you’re the one who wore it. Don’t act surprised people are looking.” You roll your eyes but the corner of your mouth twitches. “Whatever. At least I can pull it off.”

“Who said you couldn’t?”

You pause for half a second too long. Then you glare. “You’re pissing me off.”

“And you’re drunk,” he retorts, smirking.

“I’m not drunk yet. You’d know if I was drunk.”

“Oh?” He raises a brow. “What, do you start crying or something?”

“No,” you scoff. “I just get… more honest.”

“Terrifying.” You give him a sweet smile that’s anything but. “What, afraid I’ll hurt your little ego?” He looks down at you—really looks. Like he's taking in the pink flush in your cheeks, the glint in your eye, the way you don't back down even when he’s standing so damn close.

“Nah,” he says. “My ego’s huge.”

You blink. “...That’s not as reassuring as you think it is.”

He laughs, low and dry, then tilts his bottle at you in mock cheers before walking off again. You stand there for a moment, a little dazed, before grabbing another drink. Eventually, a while later, you find your way back to Yuna, who’s already three sips away from shouting compliments at strangers. She gasps when she sees you. “Babe. Baby girl. My precious. Did I just see you with Sukuna?”

You blink. “Yeah, why?”

“You know him?”

“We’re in the same chem class,” you mutter, sipping your drink. “Group project.” Yuna grabs your arm. “And you didn’t say anything?” You eye her suspiciously. “Say what?”

“That he’s literally the hottest man on this campus?!” You make a face. “He’s not that hot.” Yuna gives you a look like she’s been personally offended. “You’re lying to yourself. Also, you two have like, that weird tension. It’s kind of hot.”

You groan. “Yuna—”

“Just fuck him.”

“What is wrong with you?”

She only cackles in response before she gets whisked away by a guy who’s clearly her on-again-off-again situationship. She doesn’t even look guilty as she leans in to whisper something to him. A few minutes later, you get the text.

sorry i love u but i’m gonna go with him ok i’ll send u money for an uber ily don’t die xx

You stare at the message, swaying slightly on your stool. The room blurs a little when you blink. You swipe over to the Uber app. Try to log in. Error. Try again. Error. The third time your phone crashes entirely and you groan, bracing your elbow on the edge of the bar counter and burying your face in your hand. Your heels are starting to hurt and you can already feel tomorrow’s hangover tap dancing in your brain.

“You good?”

You lift your head slowly. And of course. Of course. It’s Sukuna again. Leaning one arm against the edge of the bar like he’s been summoned by your suffering. “You’re like a cockroach,” you mutter. “You just keep showing up.”

He grins lazily. “Still here?”

“Yeah, unfortunately. My friend ditched me and my Uber app’s being a little bitch.” He hums, gaze flicking over your glazed expression, your flushed cheeks. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“I might,” you admit. “If I don’t cry first.” 

There’s a beat of silence before he says, “I’ll drop you off.” You blink. “What? No. You’ve been drinking.”

“I haven’t. Can’t have everyone in the frat house drunk. Someone’s gotta babysit these idiots.” You blink again, the lag in your brain buffering like bad Wi-Fi. “...You?”

“Yeah, me. Shocking.”

“You know where I live?”

“You told me. Last week. After lab.”

You squint at him. “I don’t remember that.”

“Yeah, well, I remember everything.”

“Ew.”

He just stares at you, expectant, one brow cocked like he’s got all the time in the world.

You exhale dramatically. “Fine. But if you kill me I’m haunting your frat house.”

“I welcome it. It’s been boring lately.”

“Freak.” 

He smirks and plucks your phone straight from your hands to toss it into your purse, ignoring the half-hearted slap you aim at his wrist.

“Come on.” You groan, dragging yourself off the barstool, your legs not cooperating in the slightest. Your heels were cute in theory—silver with a tiny bow on the back and barely any support. Very much not made for trudging across dark college lawns and cracked sidewalks. You follow him out, still kind of mad at the universe for letting your Uber app crash. He opens the door like it's nothing, like he’s a gentleman or something—gross—and the cold night air wraps around your skin instantly. As it does, you swear you hear him mutter something. You turn, squinting through the haze. “What?”

“Nothing.” But it wasn’t nothing. It was something. And you're drunk, but not that drunk. It sounded suspiciously like you look pretty tonight. But you don’t say anything, just frown and follow him out into the night. Until you realize he’s not heading toward the street. He’s heading toward the back lot. Behind the frat house. 

You pause. “Wait—where the hell is your car?”

“Other side,” he says, without slowing.

“What do you mean other side?”

“I live here, dumbass. The resident lot is across the quad.”

“Are you kidding me?” You groan. “My feet are going to fall off.”

“Shouldn’t’ve worn stripper heels.”

“Shouldn’t’ve been born with a stick up your ass.” He snorts, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie as he walks ahead of you, like he's not dealing with a barely coherent girl in a miniskirt and heels struggling to walk in a straight line. You try to keep up, but the lawn dips, uneven and soft, and your ankle rolls slightly to the side. Your foot catches. Your knee gives out. And suddenly you’re stumbling, arms flailing, balance gone—You land hard on your ass with a sharp oof.

“FUCK,” you hiss, grabbing your ankle, already feeling the sting. You stay there a second, stewing, overwhelmed and overstimulated—the lights from the party still flickering behind your eyelids, your chest heaving from the sudden jolt, your mouth dry and head spinning. “You good?” Sukuna’s voice comes from somewhere above you, way too calm for someone whose lab partner just ate shit in front of him. “No, I’m not fucking good,” you snap, scowling up at him. “My feet are bleeding, my brain is melting, and your car is apparently in Narnia.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“You’re such a dick!”

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, suddenly stepping closer. “Just—fuck it.” You barely register him moving before there’s a sudden shift in gravity and your world tips sideways.

He scoops you up like it’s nothing.

Bridal style.

Your arms instinctively hook around his neck as you squeak, instinctively clinging to his hoodie as your legs leave the ground. “What the fuck are you doing?!” you yell, even though your voice comes out way too breathless to be convincing.

“Carrying you. Because you’re useless.”

“Put me down!”

“No.”

Your mouth opens to protest again, but your brain short-circuits because—

His hand. One of them—large, warm, calloused—is curled under your thighs, gripping firmly but not rough, fingers splayed slightly against the bare skin between your skirt and where your panties ride up your ass. But it’s the other hand that breaks your brain. It’s pressed right beneath your chest, right where the thin fabric of your top clings to your ribs. His knuckles graze the underside of your boob with each step. Not on purpose. Probably. Hopefully. But your body registers every tiny movement, every bounce and shift. Your breath stutters, nipples tightening under the lace, and—

God, you need to shut your brain off. He smells like expensive cologne and weed and something darker—musk and leather and sweat. The hoodie under your palm is worn soft, like he's had it for years, and his chest is so warm against your arm it’s making you feel dizzy. You go quiet. Not because you want to, but because your mouth won’t work right. He notices. “What, no snarky comment? Are you dying?”

“Just… conserving energy,” you mumble, trying to ignore the way your head is now resting against his shoulder, half from exhaustion, half because it feels nice there. 

“Shame. I was enjoying the sound of you bitching.” He makes it to his car—a black ‘09 Civic parked in the furthest back row—and sets you down gently, like you're glass. Which somehow feels even more ridiculous than being carried. You try to get your balance again, but before you can even reach down, he crouches and grabs your ankle.

“Hey—what are you—”

He’s already unbuckling your heel. “Your feet are bleeding,” he mutters, slipping it off carefully. Then the other. “Why are girls like this?”

“Because we suffer for fashion,” you reply, watching as he sets them neatly in the footwell of the passenger side. “Idiots,” he mutters, straightening and helping you into the seat. The door is still open as he leans in and buckles you up, the seatbelt snapping into place just under your chest.

“Don’t look at my tits,” you mumble, half-asleep, half-defensive.

“I’m not looking.”

“You are. You’ve been staring all night, you absolute perv. I might be drunk but I’m not blind.” He sighs, shuts the door, walks around to the driver’s side, and slides in beside you. The car’s interior is cool and clean and smells like the same cologne that’s still clinging to him. Once the engine’s on and the headlights glow, he glances over at you.

“Sorry I’m a man. My bad.”

“You are bad. And that’s not an excuse.”

“And yet here you are,” he drawls, pulling out of the lot, his hand casual on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the gear shift. His thighs spread slightly as he adjusts, and you don’t mean to look but—

Yeah. No. You’re drunk. Because there’s no way you’re checking out his hands or his stupid muscular legs or the way his jaw clenches every time he shifts gears. Absolutely no way. You fold your arms and press your forehead against the window, trying to cool your cheeks down, but it doesn’t work. The drive is short. He doesn’t play music. Just lets the silence sit, and somehow it’s not awkward. Just… quiet. Kinda warm. When he pulls up in front of your dorm, he doesn’t speak right away. Just sits there for a second. You turn to him slowly. “Thanks… for not letting me pass out in a bush or get murdered.”

He shrugs. “Would’ve ruined my grade if you died.” 

You scoff. “So romantic.”

A pause. His eyes flick to yours, and his voice drops just a bit.

“You’re welcome.” 

And you don’t know why, but that makes your stomach flip a little. You nod, mumble something incoherent, and go to open the door. But he stops you, reaching across you suddenly to grab your purse from the floor. His arm brushes your chest again and you freeze. He pretends not to notice. But the corner of his mouth twitches. He hands you your bag without a word, and you climb out, the night air immediately biting your skin. As you shut the door and start toward your building, you hear his voice behind you—low, amused, maybe even a little genuine.

“Get home safe, dumbass.”

You turn over your shoulder.

“Night, perv.” Then you're gone. And his car stays parked for a few more seconds than it needs to.

–

It starts slow. Just like always, you two keep meeting up for study sessions, mostly in the same tucked-away campus library room. And technically you’re still working on your project. There's still the usual back-and-forth, the occasional threat of flinging a pen at his head, and your ever-reliable "God, you're so annoying" whenever he pushes too far. But something's changed. Some invisible shift. Like the night of the frat party cracked something open. You still bicker, still throw jabs like it's oxygen, but now—

There’s laughter. Actual laughter. From you. And snickering from him, like he’s low-key delighted when you call him a dickhead with that little smile twitching at the corner of your mouth. Now he leans closer than necessary when you’re reading. His arm brushes yours and he doesn’t move. His eyes linger on your mouth when you talk and when you call him on it, he just shrugs and says, “Sorry, your lip gloss is distracting.” You throw your pen at his forehead. He catches it without looking. You start referring to the group project as our child, and he calls himself the hot absentee father. You start keeping a tally of how many times he sighs dramatically when he doesn't get the answer before you. He keeps a separate one of how many times you chew your pen cap when you’re stressed and says it’s “borderline erotic.”

“I will murder you,” you say sweetly.

"That's what makes it erotic," he replies. But it’s not just that. There’s more. Quieter things. One time, he walks in late with two iced coffees and just drops one in front of you without a word, like it’s normal now. (It becomes normal. He starts bringing snacks too. Sometimes even the weird granola bars you said once in passing that you liked.) When you’re tired, he starts reading sections aloud to you in a voice that's somehow both mocking and comforting. When you're scribbling notes and your pen runs out, he's already tossing you a spare. And eventually—

You exchange numbers.

It’s just for “convenience,” you both claim. So you can update each other on meeting times. So he can send you stupid memes related to your topic. So you can text him "you forgot the rubric again, dumbass" when he shows up with nothing but a Monster and the same black hoodie he’s worn four sessions in a row. You never call each other, of course. Not yet. But the texts get more frequent. More casual. Sometimes you’re not even talking about the project. Sometimes it’s just:

You: tell toji to stop calling me your lil nerd wife Sukuna: don’t flatter urself. he called u my leashYou: even worse?? Sukuna: not to me 😏

And one day, you're the first to arrive. You’re early, even. Kinda excited to see him, which you don't interrogate too hard because you're a busy girl with academic priorities and definitely not thinking about his stupid shoulders lately. So you sit. And wait. Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen. Finally, you send a text.

You: where u at bruh wtf im already here

There’s a delay. Then your phone buzzes. It’s a photo. A mirror selfie. Gym bathroom. Fluorescent lighting. He’s shirtless—no, wait, technically his shirt is in his mouth, bitten between his teeth. His abs are cut like they were designed in a lab. There’s a sheen of sweat on his chest, and the pinkest hint of a happy trail disappearing into black shorts. And god– the tattoos that intricately line his hips, and you’re ashamed that you’re zooming in to see them a bit more clearly. Toji’s in the background throwing up a peace sign and smirking like a menace. And the caption?

Sukuna: gym

You stare at your screen like it personally offended you. Because okay. Fine. You tolerate him now. You maybe even like him a little. Like, as a person. As in, you don’t fantasize about choking him out every time he opens his mouth. That’s progress. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared you for the way your stomach plummets at that photo.

It’s shameful, really. You’re sitting alone in the study room, already annoyed that he’s late, your phone clenched in one hand and your cold coffee sweating on the table. You only texted him out of impatience, fully expecting some lame excuse. And instead, you get that. His abs are right there. Cut. Sharp. Obscene. His happy trail is a faint pink stripe leading down, dusted just enough to make your thighs clench, and you hate yourself for it. Your face heats so fast you think you might spontaneously combust. You look around the room like someone else might have seen it, like that would somehow make this a shared crime and not just your own private downfall. You blink at the photo. Then again. Then you lock your phone. Then unlock it.

You type.

Delete.

Type again.

Backspace halfway. Then finally give in and hit send.

You: keep those freaky selfies to urself bro Sukuna: u sure? u stared at that one a little too long You: YOU CANT SEE ME Sukuna: can feel it tho You: ew Sukuna: ur welcome

You throw your phone face down on the table like it just slapped you. He shows up twenty minutes later. Hair still damp, gym bag slung over one shoulder, hoodie half on, clinging to the edge of his frame like it was trying to slide off. There’s still that smug grin curling on his lips like he knows exactly what he’s doing. You don’t even say hi. You just cross your arms and raise your brows as he strolls in like he owns the place.

“I said keep the thirst traps to yourself, gym rat.”

He collapses into the chair next to you, legs spread way too wide, stretching his arms back behind his head with a low groan like he’s been working so hard—and the motion tugs his hoodie just enough for you to catch a flash of skin. A line of muscle. That stupid V again. “Thirst trap?” he echoes, voice low and lazy. “Nah. That was community service.”

You make a show of rolling your eyes, flipping a page in your notes. “You’re disgusting.” He leans over, chin propped in his hand, eyes glittering with something sharp and amused. “C’mon,” he says, his voice dropping, thick and playful, “you’re telling me you didn’t like it?” You don’t answer. He grins like that’s an answer. Then, slow and deliberate, he leans back again—slouches down in the chair like he owns it, hands behind his head, and lets his hoodie inch up. Not a lot. Just enough. Enough to show the ridges of his abs. The line of his hipbones. The tattoos. The happy trail, pink and soft and infuriating, peeking above the waistband of his shorts like he planned this entire thing. Like this is a setup and you walked into it willingly. “Sure about that?” he murmurs, eyes heavy-lidded and watching you now. You make a strangled sound in your throat and smack a folder in front of your face.

“You are so weird,” you mutter from behind it. He laughs. Real, deep, warm. And you hate the way it makes something loosen in your chest. And it keeps happening—these strange, flirty little moments you don’t know how to explain. He starts texting you just to annoy you. You start sending him selfies of your weird coffee orders with captions like for our child (the project). He calls you baby mama when you least expect it and winks every time you make eye contact. And maybe the worst part?

You start dressing better. Not for him, obviously. That’d be dumb. It’s just… you’re a girl. Sometimes you want to look cute. Sometimes you want to wear something other than an oversized hoodie and leggings. So you start showing up in cropped tops. In fitted shirts. In actual shorts when it's warm out. Sometimes you even—God forbid—do your hair. Not for him, of course. Except... he notices. You’re bent over your laptop one afternoon when you catch him staring again. Not like he’s trying to be subtle. He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, smirking lazily.

“What?” you say, defensive.

“You look good,” he says, so bluntly it makes you blink. Then, almost offhand: “But I liked when you wore those weird baggy clothes, too.” You snort.  And suddenly the words tumble from your mouth, words you didn’t expect to say at all.

“Yeah? Didn’t you say the project would be easier if I was hot?”

His smirk falters for the first time. He pauses. Then—quietly, sincerely, and in that very Sukuna way—he says, “Yeah, well. I lied about that to piss you off. Obviously.” 

A beat.

“You’re touched in the head if you don’t think you’re hot.” You go quiet. The air goes weird again—thick and strange and soft around the edges. You blink down at your notes, unsure what to say. Then, like it’s nothing, he shrugs. “Also… sorry. About that. And all the other comments. Shouldn’t’ve said that shit.”

You glance at him. He’s not looking at you. Just fiddling with the ring on his finger like he’s not even sure if he meant to say it out loud. You swallow. Your stomach flips. Something tender and unfamiliar blooms in your chest. Then, because you can’t handle the softness, you bump his foot under the table and mumble, “You’re still annoying.” He grins like he’s won something. You work in silence after that—your legs stretched out, your ankles resting comfortably on his lap. He doesn’t move them. Just shifts to make space. At one point he starts absently tracing circles on your sock with one finger. And you don’t move either. You just let it happen. Because whatever this is—it’s not nothing anymore. It’s weird and slow and unfolding. It’s not sharp like it used to be. It’s soft. It’s warm.

And you don’t know what this thing is. Not yet. But it’s something. It’s teasing and warm and slow and building. It’s softer around the edges now. His glances linger longer. His jokes don’t always have a bite. He starts giving you the better chair. He moves his laptop so you can stretch your legs out and rest your ankles on his lap like it’s no big deal. He taps your water bottle when you forget to drink. He waits for you after class sometimes now. He starts noticing things. When you’re tired. When you’ve skipped lunch. When your leg’s bouncing under the table and you’re clearly spiraling about a deadline. He just reaches over and taps your water bottle. “Drink something. You look like you’re about to combust.”

And one day you realize—

You’re not dressing better because you feel like it. You’re dressing better because something inside you wants him to look at you. Want him to notice. Wants him to sit across from you with his dumb jawline and his pretty mouth and his stupid gaze and look. Like he sees you. And he does. It’s horrifying. And kind of thrilling. You don’t say anything. You just keep showing up. You let your shirts fit a little tighter. Your hair falls a little smoother. You wear that one necklace that always rests right at the tops of your chest. You tell yourself it’s fine. It’s nothing.

–

The last few weeks of the semester come fast and loud. Finals hang heavy in the air, coffee-fueled library sessions and group study chaos around every corner, but somehow, Sukuna still finds a way to plant himself next to you in every single lecture. Literally. He doesn’t even ask anymore—just drops into the seat beside you like it’s his birthright. Kicks his legs out wide under the desk, slumps dramatically back in the seat, leans over with that lazy, smug-ass voice to ask if you did the pre-lecture reading (you did, obviously; he did not, obviously). Sometimes he brings snacks. One time, it was gummy worms. Another time, chips he smuggled in the sleeve of his hoodie like a middle schooler. He offered you one and you made a face but still took it. He grinned. 

Your chem project is basically wrapped up. You’re in editing and final-presentation mode now, which somehow translates to even more time together. Study sessions have blurred into hangouts, your text convos half-project, half weird jokes and chaotic memes. He still calls you names—airhead, goblin, menace—but sometimes his voice gets soft when he does. He still teases you, but the silences in between stretch warm and easy. So when you’re walking out of a bookstore downtown one Saturday afternoon and spot him across the street, it’s almost normal. He’s with Toji and Choso, the three of them leaning against a car like they’re posing for some kind of delinquent calendar. Sukuna clocks you first. His eyes catch on you, and he lifts his hand in a lazy, beckoning wave.

You cross the street.

He smirks. "Didn’t know you had business on this side of town. What, you stalking me now?" You roll your eyes. "Relax. I was running errands. There’s a stationery shop over there that sells the pens I like."

"Nerd," Choso says, but he sounds kind of fond. Toji just nods like, fair. Sukuna tilts his head. "You taking the bus back?"

"Yeah, why?"

"It’s getting dark," he says like it’s a passing observation. Then, in that dry, effortless way: "You look like a perfect kidnapping target. All spaced out and clueless. C’mere, little lamb."

You gape. "Okay well you’re the type of person to be the one doing the kidnapping."

"Uh-huh. Get in. I’ll drive you."

You’re protesting before he even finishes the sentence. But Toji just shrugs, opens the passenger door for you like this is something he’s used to, and Choso’s already climbing into the back. You sigh and slide in, heart pounding for reasons you refuse to name.  The drive starts off easy. After a while, he drops off both Choso and Toji to the gym– where they were apparently headed for an evening grind session. Spending time with these three makes you think that the gym might be their second home besides the frat house where they live. You lean your head against the window, watching the city pass by in a blur of dusk and brake lights. But traffic hits near campus—an accident or something up ahead—and the car slows to a crawl.

You sigh, long and dramatic, throwing your head back against the seat. “Well. Looks like we’re stuck.” Sukuna shoots you a flat look, one hand tapping the wheel while the other lazily rests across his lap. “Incredible deduction, Sherlock. What gave it away? The line of cars stretching into the abyss?”

You flip him off without looking. “I’m putting on music.”

He sits up a little straighter. “Don’t you dare play weird indie-girl shit.” You’re already unlocking your phone, smug. “Too late.” And then it begins—those soft, dreamy guitar chords of She Won’t Go Away, spilling out through the car speakers like a bubble bath in audio form. Sukuna visibly flinches.

“What the fuck is this?” he groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This sounds like it belongs in a movie montage of someone getting dumped in the rain.” You grin, curling your legs up into the seat and pressing your temple against the cool glass of the window. “It’s art. It’s emotion. It’s currently the only thing keeping me alive during finals.” 

You’re already humming under your breath, voice quiet but matching the lilt of the lyrics like you’ve done this a hundred times alone in your room. You don’t even notice you’re doing it at first—just this soft, distracted singing, like muscle memory. Like breathing. Sukuna groans again, leaning back against his seat like he’s physically in pain. “Put on Playboi Carti like a normal human being.”

“No,” you reply sweetly, already queuing the song again. “I’m hyper fixated. That means I’m playing it at least three more times.”

“Jesus,” he mutters, but doesn’t reach for the aux. Instead, he leans his head back against the headrest and shuts his eyes, as if surrendering to the inevitable. His tattooed arm is draped lazily along the console between you. The setting sun outside paints soft orange lines across the curve of his throat, the ridges of his knuckles, the cut of his jaw. You glance over. Just for a second. His damp pink hair is curling a little where it rests against his forehead, the collar of his shirt a little stretched from where he tugged it off earlier. His hands are relaxed, but you’ve seen them clenched around a pen, a steering wheel, a can—so often that it’s weird to see them soft like this. 

When the chorus hits again, you can’t help it—you clutch your water bottle like it’s a microphone and sing along, full volume, completely tone-deaf. Your voice cracks on a high note. You don’t care. The car is stuck, the sun is bleeding out across the horizon, and for once your brain is quiet enough to let you just be. Sukuna cracks an eye open to stare at you. There’s an expression hovering on his face—part judgment, part amusement, all exasperated affection. “You’re fucking insane,” he murmurs, but doesn’t tell you to stop. You play the song two more times. The last time, he even taps his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the beat. By the time the traffic thins and he pulls up in front of your dorm, it’s fully dark out. The streets are quiet. A light breeze rustles the trees overhead, and your building glows warm from the windows.

The car idles for a moment. Neither of you moves. You fiddle with your bag strap. “Thanks. For the ride.”  Sukuna shrugs like it’s no big deal, hand still resting casually on the steering wheel. “Didn’t want you to get kidnapped. I’ll be pissed if I have to deal with a new project partner this late in the semester.”

You snort. “So heartwarming. Hallmark should hire you.” But still, your smile softens. You open the door, start to slide out—

“Hey,” his voice cuts in, low. You turn back. He’s watching you, one elbow propped against the window, his mouth tugged into something just barely resembling seriousness.

“You’ve got a nice voice,” he says, slow. “When you sing.”

You blink. Then: “I mean—it’s not good,” he adds quickly, defensive. “Just—nice. Like. You know. Tolerable. Shut the fuck up.” You’re already laughing, your whole face warm, stomach fluttering for a reason that makes you want to scream into your pillow later. You shake your head, half-dizzy, and wave him off.

“Freak.”

He grins. “Obviously.” And then he’s pulling away, the soft glow of his taillights disappearing around the corner as you stand there on the curb, heart doing something you really wish it wouldn’t.

–

The dorm lounge is dark. A sad, crooked little sign is taped to the door, flapping slightly from the draft in the hallway: CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE. You stare at it in disbelief.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” you mutter. Sukuna makes a noise behind you—something between a groan and a sigh that says of course this would happen now.

“We walked all the way here,” you grumble, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. “And East Wing Library’s still under construction as well.” You sigh, then shove your phone back in your pocket. “Whatever. Guess we’re not studying tonight.” Sukuna scratches at his jaw, eyeing you sideways. “We could go to my place.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“My frat house,” he clarifies, as if that helps. You squint at him. 

“Yeah, no offense, but the last thing I wanna do is walk into a testosterone-infested lair filled with Axe body spray and half-naked dudes playing Call of Duty.”

Sukuna smirks. “What do you think a frat house is, Animal House?” You raise a brow. “Is it not?”

“It’s…marginally cleaner.”

“Uh-huh.” 

He grins, lazy and wolfish. “What, you scared you’ll get corrupted?”

“Oh please. I’m scared I’ll catch a fungal infection from your couch.”

“Wow.” He mock clutches his chest. “That’s the same couch Toji had sex on junior year.” You wrinkle your nose. “You’re not helping your case.”

–

But you’re already walking beside him as he pulls his keys out of his pocket, smug as ever. The house is surprisingly... not awful. It’s big, for one. Tall windows, wide wraparound porch. Someone’s put effort into decorating the front room—there are actual plants. A couple are plastic, sure, but still. Progress.

“Don’t touch anything,” Sukuna says as he unlocks the door. “You might set off a trap.” You snort and follow him inside. Almost instantly, voices erupt from the kitchen.

“Yo!” someone calls. “Sukuna brought a girl? What the fuck?” You round the corner and find a man with gauges, hair tied back into a bun, leaning back in a chair with his feet propped on the table. Choso’s there too, hair also tied up in a low bun, sipping some horrifying green drink out of a mason jar.

“Holy shit,” Suguru grins, “she real?”

“She’s not my date,” Sukuna says, already annoyed. “She’s my lab partner.”

“Uh-huh, he’s actually not making up bullshit this time, Sugu,” Choso says, nodding solemnly between Sukuna and you. “Suguru, you shoulda seen the way he talks about h–.”

“Shut up, bitch.”

“She’s cute though,” Suguru adds, eyeing you with an arched brow. “You sure this isn’t, like, your redemption arc?”

You just raise a brow. “This what you call hospitality?” Suguru snorts. “She talks back. I like her.”

“Bye,” Sukuna says sharply, grabbing your wrist. “Upstairs. Now.”

You’re still laughing as he drags you past the second floor landing. “Damn. Didn’t know you hadn’t brought anyone home in months.”

“Jesus,” he mutters.

“What’s wrong, celibate king? Losing your edge?” He stops in front of a door, turns to face you with that cocky smirk curling up again. “You wishing I haven’t gotten laid recently?”

You blink at him innocently. “Just surprised you haven’t. With how obsessed you are with yourself.”

“Yeah, well,” he says, pushing the door open, “standards.” You snort.  But his room is… not what you expected. It’s neat. Cleaner than yours, probably. Dark wooden desk against the wall, books stacked haphazardly but intentionally. An unmade bed with black sheets and a dark grey hoodie tossed over the pillow. There’s a little lamp glowing low in the corner and a record player next to a speaker. You hate how nice it smells in here. You set your bag down on the floor. “Why does it smell like... sage and expensive soap?”

“Because I’m not disgusting?”

“Debatable.” You both settle on the floor, laptops out, papers scattered. He brings over a half-full bag of spicy chips and a water bottle, which he throws at you without looking. It hits you square in the chest.

“Dickhead.”

“You’re welcome.”

The first twenty minutes are actually productive—notes reviewed, graphs tweaked, last-minute slides double-checked. But inevitably, the banter creeps in. His foot nudges yours under the desk. You nudge back. He leans over to steal a gummy from your bag and you slap his hand away.

“Stop stealing my candy.”

“You ate my gummy worms last week.”

“I didn’t steal them. I accepted them.”

“Wow. You’re so full of shit.”

“Eat dirt.” He laughs—low, under his breath—and it shouldn’t affect you the way it does, but it sinks into your skin like heat, lingers in your bloodstream. It’s not the usual cocky bark of a laugh he throws at you when he’s being a menace. This one is quieter. Throatier. Less sharp edges, more velvet. Like he’s amused with you, not at you. It wrecks your focus. He’s leaned back against the edge of his bed now, legs splayed carelessly, one knee bent, the other stretching toward you like it owns the space. His shirt rides up a little at the waist, just enough to flash the hard lines of his stomach, the deep cut of his hipbones disappearing under black sweats. One of his arms hangs lazy over his knee, veins taut beneath inked skin, fingers playing absently with a red pen. And his hair—fuck. It's a mess, falling over his forehead in soft waves, a few strands catching on his lashes when he looks down. You want to brush it back. You want to tug on it.

You shift slightly, trying to re-cross your legs, trying to re-engage your brain with the paper in front of you. But your sweater dips with the movement—a soft, oversized thing you threw on without much thought. It hangs loose over your collarbones, dips just enough to expose a hint of skin and the swell of your chest where the neckline falls low. You feel his gaze before you see it. A flicker—subtle, but deliberate. Your eyes lift slowly. He’s staring.

“You're staring.”

Sukuna doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t pretend to be caught, doesn’t have the decency to look embarrassed. He just meets your eyes, unashamed, and shrugs one shoulder in a way that’s all smooth arrogance. “Can you blame me?” You snort, but it comes out quieter than intended. Your throat’s a little dry. “You’re gross.”

“Yeah?” He shifts a bit, elbow sliding behind him so he’s leaning fully back now, neck tipped against the wall, gaze still locked on you. “Don’t act like you didn’t wear that on purpose.”

You scoff. “Excuse me?”

He lifts a brow, lazy. “The sweater. The whole off-duty art girl thing. You knew what you were doing.”

“I didn’t,” you protest, but your voice slips a bit, too defensive. “I just… liked the color.” Sukuna hums like he doesn’t believe you. His eyes stay exactly where they were—lingering, slow, blatantly appreciating. You glare at him. “You're an asshole.”

He grins. “True.” But then, softer. Less teasing. “You look cute.”

It lands differently. The words settle between you like something solid, something heavy. Not a joke. Not just banter. You’re suddenly hyper-aware of everything—how warm it is in the room, how quiet. The hum of the old radiator. The scent of whatever he uses in his laundry detergent—something clean and citrusy and a little intoxicating. You don’t respond. Your heart is thudding against your ribs, a little too loud, a little too fast. He watches you. Waits. Then, finally, you manage: “Stop being weird.” But your voice isn’t sharp anymore. It’s soft. Uncertain. He smirks, but his eyes stay serious. “You love it.”

You roll your eyes, trying to drag your gaze back to your notes, to anything other than the way his gaze is dragging over your skin like a physical touch. You pretend to read, pretend to write, but you feel it—the tension, thick as syrup in the air. He’s close. Closer than before. You can feel the heat of him next to you, the way his thigh shifts slightly, brushing yours. Your eyes lift slowly. He’s already watching you. His expression is unreadable—equal parts amusement and hunger. He’s studying you like he’s memorizing. Like he’s waiting for the exact right moment to pounce.

And then he moves. No warning. No smart remark. Just a slow lean forward, one hand braced near your thigh as he closes the distance—eyes flicking from your lips to your eyes and back again, like he’s giving you a chance to pull away.

You don’t.

And before you know it, his lips are melding against yours. The kiss is slow. Careful. Not tentative, but measured, like he’s savoring the first taste. His lips are soft, warm, coaxing yours open. His hand comes up, rough fingers brushing your jaw before settling lightly at the base of your neck, thumb against your pulse. You inhale sharply when his mouth deepens against yours, tongue sliding over your bottom lip, teasing, asking—and when you give in, he groans, low and satisfied in the back of his throat. The sound goes straight to your stomach. He tastes like cinnamon gum and spice, something dark and smoky underneath. His teeth scrape lightly against your lip and you gasp into him, fingers fisting in the hem of his shirt without even realizing. When he finally pulls back, it’s barely an inch. His breath brushes against your mouth. His eyes are lidded, lashes low, lips parted and slightly swollen. He looks fucking wrecked. And somehow still manages to smirk. “Still think I’m gross?”

You blink at him, dazed. “Yes.” He laughs, that soft velvet-laced one again. You don’t even hesitate this time. You kiss him again—harder, needier, something unspoken unraveling fast between you. Your fingers curl tighter into his shirt, pulling him closer, and he doesn't resist—in fact, he deepens it like he's been waiting for this, like every smartass comment and every prolonged look was just him biding time. His hand drifts, slow, from your jaw to your throat—not pressing, just resting, thumb stroking just under your jawline, grounding you. The contrast of his rough fingers against your softer skin sends heat spiraling straight down your spine. Not just that– The hand on your throat sends a wave of heat right between your legs. Like he’s showing you who’s in control.

He pulls away just slightly, breath ragged, forehead grazing yours. "You kiss like you’ve been thinking about this.” You giggle against his mouth. “What if I have?”

That makes him groan—low, deep in his chest—and then he’s kissing you again, more urgent this time, less slow-burn and more fuck, finally. His hand slides into your hair, cradling the back of your head as he tilts your mouth open wider, tongue sliding against yours with a filthy kind of rhythm. You shift instinctively into his space, knees brushing his thighs, your body angling toward his like gravity made the call for you. His hands trail from the length of your back to your ass, squeezing it in his large, calloused palms. It gets hazy, fast. The taste of him, the weight of his palm as it trails from your throat to the dip of your collarbone, fingers catching on the edge of your sweater. He breaks the kiss just long enough to look down—his hand still on you—and you see the shift in his expression the second he remembers your neckline. He hooks a finger into the v-line of the neckline, exposing the swells of your pretty tits to his hungry gaze.

“See,” he murmurs, voice rough now, barely-there smile curling the corners of his mouth. “You did wear this shit on purpose. Look at the way it just falls down so easily– ‘S like you wanted me to stare at your tits.” You breathe out a laugh—shaky. “You’re so full of yourself.” He ducks his head, mouth grazing your collarbone now, slow and deliberate, hands palming your breasts. “You’re not denying it, though.”

Your response gets swallowed by the way his lips brush the base of your neck, warm and soft, and then he bites—not hard, just enough to make your breath catch. 

“Fuck—Sukuna—”

“Say that again,” he mutters, voice vibrating against your skin. “Say it like that.” You yank at his shirt in response, pulling him closer until he's practically between your legs, notebooks shoved aside and forgotten. He lets you, smiling against your neck, one hand situated on your breast, the other settling on your thigh now, fingers pressing just enough through the fabric of your leggings that it sends your heart into a tailspin.

“You’re—I don’t even like you like that,” you breathe, even as your hips shift slightly forward, even as your body clearly wants him, your heat pressed directly on the very evident bulge in his sweatpants. He drags his mouth back up to yours. “So stop kissing me.” You kiss him harder.

His hand slides up your thigh, slow but sure, fingers skating over your hip, his palm pressing warm through the fabric. You gasp into his mouth when his thumb brushes just below your waistband, teasing, testing. Still not rushing. Sukuna’s the kind of guy who knows exactly how to draw something out until it burns. His kiss slows again—like he’s dialing it back, testing your limits. “Tell me to stop,” he says, voice lower than you’ve ever heard it. “If you want me to.” You shake your head before the words even leave his mouth. 

“Don’t.” He exhales, almost like relief. “Good.”

Because now his fingers are slipping under your sweater, not even pretending to be shy, tracing the warm skin of your stomach, the skin above your waistband. When he feels the way your breath stutters, he pauses—lifts his head to look at you.

“You good?” His voice is soft. Different. You nod, swallowing. “Yeah. I’m good.” His lips twitch like he’s amused with how breathless you sound, but he doesn’t say anything cocky this time. He just kisses you again, slower now, more methodical, hands exploring like he’s cataloguing every inch of you. You’re vaguely aware that you're still in his room, that the door’s closed but the walls are thin, that you’re half-on, half-off his bed surrounded by a mess of notes and highlighters and open laptops. And none of that matters. Because the way he’s looking at you now—eyes dark, mouth kiss-swollen, hair a mess from your fingers—it’s not just heat. It’s hunger. Craving. Like he’s been waiting for this since the day he sat next to you in chem lab with that annoying smirk.

And now that he has you? He’s going to take his time. You're not sure when studying officially got left behind. Somewhere between the first kiss and the way his hands slid under your sweater, books became background noise. The project became irrelevant. Now, he’s laying you back on his bed—slowly, carefully, like he’s trying not to make you overthink it. The room is dim, golden light spilling in from the desk lamp. Your legs are tangled with his, your sweater halfway off your shoulder, and he’s hovering over you, kissing you like it’s something he needs to do, like he’s been trying not to all semester and finally gave up. You feel his hand slide under your sweater again, this time pushing it up your ribs, warm palm skating over your skin like he’s memorizing it. He doesn’t even rush—he just looks down at you like you’re something to unravel, slowly.

“You sure?” he says again, quieter this time. His thumb brushes just under your bra, like he’s offering you a way out, even now. You nod, heart stuttering. “Yeah.” That’s all it takes. Because after that, Sukuna moves like a switch flips. His hands are suddenly everywhere—sliding your sweater off completely, tossing it somewhere behind him, and then he’s kissing you again, this time lower, trailing his mouth down your neck, down the line of your collarbone, licking into the dip between your breasts like he’s been thinking about doing it forever. 

His hand tugs off your bra roughly, making you squeak– you’re not sure if it’s from the surprise from having the material ripped off of you so roughly, or the fact his long fingers are pinching at your nipples. He takes one in his mouth, sucking and rolling the sensitive bud around, before doing the same to the other one. With each action, you feel yourself getting wetter and wetter, to the point you’re half wishing he’d just take your leggings and panties off, and just get on with it.

“Fuck,” he mutters, half against your skin. “You’re—god, you’re driving me fucking crazy.” He pulls off your nipple with a resounding pop, eyes darkened by the sight of the sheen of his saliva on your breasts. You laugh, breathless. “You’re literally the one climbing on top of me right now.”

He looks up at you, hair falling in his face, mouth wet and swollen. “Yeah, because you look like this. Wearing that stupid little sweater. Coming to my room. Being all—” He cuts himself off with a groan. “You knew what you were doing. You expected me not to do all this?” He punctuates this with a light pinch to your nipple, making you squeal.

“I came here to study!”

“Yeah, and now you’re in my bed. About to get your little pussy wrecked until you can’t walk. Real tragic how that worked out.” You feel yourself heat up– like your entire body aflame at his vulgar words, mouth opening to retort something back at him. He kisses you again before you can reply, this time rougher—his hands slipping under the waistband of your leggings, tugging slow and deliberate. You lift your hips to help him, cheeks flushed as he pulls them down and off in one fluid motion, leaving you in just your underwear. His eyes darken.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re unreal. And wet. Fuck, I can practically see your pussy because of how wet you are.” 

You reach for the hem of his shirt, tugging it up. “Take this off. It's unfair I’m the only one half-naked.” 

He grins—sharp, pleased—and yanks it over his head in one smooth move. Suddenly you’re staring at the body that you’ve been unconsciously (consciously) staring at everytime he wears something even slightly form fitted. Defined, lean muscle, broad chest, ink curling along his side. Do you even need to mention the pink smattering of hair below his navel? It makes your thighs clench uncomfortably, making your eyes darken. He catches your look and smirks. “Like what you see, huh?”

“Shut up and get back here.” And he does. He presses his body flush against yours, warm and solid, one hand braced beside your head, the other cupping your waist. You can feel how hard he is through his sweatpants now, the heat of it making your breath catch. His hand trails down, teasing the edge of your underwear. “Still good?” You nod, hips shifting toward him. “Sukuna, please.” He growls, soft and low in his throat, and hooks his fingers into the waistband, tugging them down. He kisses your neck as he does it, slow and hot, and you shudder. He gets them off and then leans back, just for a second, to look at you spread out in his bed, wet and inviting. His eyes are practically black now, jaw tight like he’s holding something back.

“Holy fuck,” he mutters. “You’re actually gonna kill me.” You tug at the waistband of his sweats. “Then die faster.” He laughs, breathless, and strips them off, boxers too. Holy fuck. It’s impressive. Thick and girthy, leaking from the pink tip. You try not to stare—try being the operative word—and he notices.

“Cute,” he says, climbing back over you. “You’ve been a nuisance to me all semester and now you’re blushing over my dick?”

“You’re literally about to be inside me. Give me a break.” That shuts him up real quick. He leans in, kisses you slow, hand sliding between your thighs. He teases you with his fingers first, dipping the long digits in and out of your wetness, making sure you’re ready, whispering things against your neck—“You’re so wet already,” and “Fuck, this tight for me?”—until you’re shaking, seeing stars just from two, thick fingers of his, clinging to his muscled arms. Once he’s deemed that you’re pleasantly even more wet than you were pre-orgasm, he strokes his shaft, the tip pink and angry as he stares with a half lidded gaze at the glistening area between your legs.

And then he’s there, lined up, pushing in slow. You gasp at the stretch, the pressure, your hands grabbing onto his biceps as he sinks into you inch by inch. “God,” he grits out, forehead pressed against yours. “You feel—fuck—you feel insane. Oh my– Shit, I’m never letting this pussy outta my sight.” You can’t speak. You just hold onto him, breathing through it, until he’s all the way in and stills. Gives you a second. Kisses you again. When you finally nod, his hips start to move—slow, deep strokes that make your whole body arch into him. It’s hot and messy and intense, but there’s something else in it too—something careful. He watches you like he wants to memorize every expression you make, every sound you let out.

It builds fast—frustration and release and months of tension finally cracking open. His name falls from your lips more than once, and he groans each time like it’s doing something to him.

“S-Sukuna—fuck—I’m—”

“I got you,” he mutters, kissing your shoulder. “I got you. Come on, baby. Make a mess on my dick. Yeah, mhm. Fuck.” And when you come, it hits like a wave—sharp and overwhelming, your whole body curling into him, his name leaving your mouth in breathy moans. He follows not long after, hips stuttering as he barely manages to pull out, his warm seed splattering on your stomach, head buried in your neck, cursing softly against your skin. He kisses you briefly, heading quickly to his bathroom to grab a warm washcloth to wipe your stomach clean, tossing the balled up cloth into the hamper in some corner of the room.

Afterward, there’s just heavy breathing and tangled limbs. His hand finds yours under the sheets, fingers interlacing. You’re the first to speak, voice still shaky.  “That was–That was not studying.”

Sukuna laughs—hoarse, wrecked. “Yeah, no shit.” You glance at him. “So… do we pick the project back up tomorrow?” He rolls over, smirking at the ceiling. “Maybe if you let me come inside next time.” You throw a pillow at his face. He catches it without flinching. “Worth it.”

And you laugh, falling back into the sheets beside him, skin still buzzing, body still flushed. For once, everything’s quiet.

–

You stretch, groaning into the pillow, body aching in a way that’s half delicious and half criminal. Your thighs hurt. Your back hurts. Your soul might hurt a little. From across the room, you hear the sound of Sukuna's shower turning on. “No,” you croak, face still buried in the pillow. “I am not moving. I live here now. This is my bed.”

“You’re literally lying on my hoodie.”

“Then it’s mine now too.” 

He snorts. “Get your ass up. We should shower before everyone in the frat wakes up and thinks I killed someone in here.” You peek out with one eye. “You can go first.”

“I wasn’t offering,” he says, walking out of the bathroom with just a towel slung low around his hips. Drops of water are still clinging to his chest, and the tattoos on his ribs look somehow worse in the daylight. In the best way. “Come on.” You blink at him. “You want to shower… together?”

He raises a brow. “Yeah?”

“No.” He squints. “Why not?”

“That’s intimate.”

He stares. “My dick was inside you last night.” You wave a hand. “That’s physical. This is emotional.” He laughs—actually laughs—and crosses the room in two strides. “You're such a weirdo.”

“I’m serious! Showering together is, like, emotionally naked. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s so vulnerable. That’s like… domestic. That’s, like, soft.”

He rolls his eyes, completely unfazed. “You’re such a freak.” Then, before you can protest further, he grabs you—still very naked, still very sore—and throws you over his shoulder like a caveman. His hand slaps across your ass lightly, snickering to himself.

“SUKUNA—”

“I’m not listening to you spiral about emotional nudity,” he says, totally calm, carrying you into the bathroom like you weigh nothing. “You moaned my name like a porn star last night. You can handle a shower.”

“I can’t walk!”

“Which is why I’m being a gentleman and carrying you.”

“You are the opposite of a gentleman.” He kicks the bathroom door shut behind him and sets you down on the edge of the counter. Steam curls around both of you, hot and fragrant—his shampoo smells stupidly good, which is somehow infuriating.

You stare at the water, then at him. “This doesn’t mean anything.”

Sukuna grins, dimples flashing. “Obviously.” You roll your eyes, but your stomach flips a little anyway. The second you step under the spray, your muscles sigh. Hot water hits your back, and you slump forward with a sound that’s halfway between a groan and a prayer. Sukuna slides in behind you, and his hands immediately land on your hips, holding you steady like he knew you were about to collapse.

“I told you I couldn’t stand,” you mumble, leaning back against his chest.

“I didn’t realize you meant it literally,” he says, smirking into the curve of your neck. “You should work on your stamina.”

“You should get bent.”

“Hm, I think I bent you. Very successfully, actually.”

You try to elbow him, but he catches your wrist easily, still grinning. “Want me to wash your hair?” You eye him warily. “What are you gonna do? Douse me in Axe body wash?”

“Hey. That’s slander.” He grabs a bottle from the ledge and starts working it into your scalp before you can protest. His hands are warm, gentle, and surprisingly careful. He’s quiet for a second, and so are you. Then he murmurs, “You smell good.”

“It’s your shampoo. That’s like self cest. You’re saying I only smell good because I smell like you?”

“Yeah, but now it’s on you. It’s different. Not self cest. You just… Shut up and lemme wash your hair.” You glance up, heart doing something stupid in your chest. “You’re being weird again.”

“Yeah?” He ducks down slightly, voice lower now, breath ghosting against your ear. “And what if I said I like being weird with you?” You freeze. Then you shove a palm into his chest. “Shut up. That’s so corny.” He laughs, but his grip on your waist doesn’t falter. You stay under the water a little longer, letting the heat and his hands and the way his chest feels against your back melt the rest of the tension out of you. When he reaches for the soap again, you catch his wrist. “Do not start anything. I physically can’t take another round.” Sukuna leans in, kisses the side of your jaw with a smirk. “Don’t worry, baby doll. I’ll be good.” He’s not. Safe to say you ended up begging for it too.

–

The hallway’s cold. Way colder than your dignity can handle when you’re limping barefoot behind a shirtless Sukuna in his frat house, wearing his hoodie and a pair of his shorts that might as well be pants. Your hair’s damp, your thighs are wrecked, and your pride? That’s somewhere on the floor of his room with your underwear.

“You didn’t have to break me in half,” you mutter under your breath, wincing with each step. Sukuna snorts, completely unbothered. “You seemed fine last night. And in the shower.”

“I was faking it.”

He glances over his shoulder, smug. “You were screaming.”

“Faking it loudly, then,” you snap. He just chuckles, steps into the kitchen like he’s not Satan incarnate. Toji’s already there—standing shirtless in front of the stove, flipping protein pancakes in a pan that looks like it’s seen war. He glances up the moment you hobble in behind Sukuna, eyes trailing from your flushed face to the unmistakable fact that you are wearing Sukuna’s hoodie and walking like you’ve been in a car crash.

Toji freezes. Then grins. Slow. Evil.

“Oh shit.”

You want to die. You want the linoleum floor to open up and swallow you whole. You press the sleeves of Sukuna’s hoodie over your face. “I knew I heard something last night,” Toji says, flipping a pancake like this is the best morning of his life. “Told Choso it wasn’t the pipes. That’s gotta be why he slept on the couch.”

“I hate this house,” you mumble. Sukuna yawns. “Shut the fuck up, Toji.” Toji just cackles. “She’s limping, bro. You broke her.” Your head snaps up. “Shut up! Don’t say it like that—”

“Toji,” Sukuna says again, voice dropping low now. “If you say one more thing, I’m banning you from ever speaking in the kitchen again.” Toji raises both hands, innocent. “Damn. Y’all are sensitive this morning.” Sukuna grabs a water bottle off the counter and throws it—nails Toji square in the chest. Water explodes. Toji wheezes laughing.

“I’m putting a ban on the entire house,” Sukuna mutters, turning toward the hallway. “Nobody comes out of their fucking rooms for the next twelve hours.”  Toji wipes water off his chest with a paper towel. “That’s not how a frat works.”

“It is now.” 

You, meanwhile, are dying silently in the corner of the kitchen, gripping the counter for dear life like Bambi on ice. Your legs genuinely might give out. You pull the hoodie lower and try to disappear into it. Toji eyes you, smirking. “You want a protein pancake, champ? You’ve earned it.”

“I swear to God—”

Sukuna slams a mug down on the counter. “TOJI.”

“Okay, okay! Damn. Sensitive and possessive.”

Sukuna grabs two mugs, fills them with coffee, then turns to you like nothing happened. “C’mere.” You shuffle over, still avoiding eye contact with the man who just witnessed your walk of shame, and accept the mug gratefully. Your fingers brush Sukuna’s as you take it, and he glances at you. That look again. The one that’s always a little cocky, a little smug. But softer now. Like he hasn’t quite recovered either. You sip the coffee to avoid saying something dumb.

Toji, of course, ruins the moment by smacking the spatula on the counter. “So when’s the wedding?” Sukuna chucks a pancake at him. And despite the embarrassment, despite the ache in your thighs and the fact that your ego might never recover… when Sukuna leans against the counter next to you, shoulder brushing yours, and murmurs, “Still think showering’s more intimate than sex?”—you don’t argue. You just bump his hip with yours and whisper, “Next time, you’re the one limping.” He barks out a laugh at that, looking down at you.

“You sound like you’re gonna peg me.”

“Keep embarrassing me like this and I might just peg you.”

–

It keeps happening. Somehow, even after you swore you weren’t gonna end up tangled with a smug frat boy who wears rings like armor and calls you “menace” every time you breathe wrong—here you are. The project is basically done, but that doesn’t change much. You still see each other constantly, like it’s built into your week now. Study sessions, late-night editing, grabbing food on the way back from the library. He still comes over unannounced and flops onto your bed like it’s his, still kicks his shoes off and demands snacks and calls you bossy for forcing him to fix his citations.

And okay, yeah. You keep hooking up. It’s not even subtle anymore. Sometimes he’ll press you into your mattress before your laptop’s even warmed up, muttering something like “five minutes” that always turns into an hour. You fall asleep tangled in his limbs more often than you’d like to admit, his hand wrapped around your waist like it belongs there. And it’s not just sex—it’s everything. The way he orders your coffee without asking. The way he instinctively tilts his head down when you talk so he hears every word. The way he looks at you, like he’s memorizing you. Toji and Choso have basically stopped pretending it’s casual. Every time you come over to the frat house, someone whistles or yells, “Yo, Sukuna’s girl’s here!” 

You always roll your eyes, but your cheeks warm anyway. Sukuna usually throws a middle finger over his shoulder and drags you inside like he doesn’t care—but you’ve caught the smirk on his face more than once. But then. One Wednesday, you walk into class a couple minutes late. You’re digging for a pen in your bag, not paying attention, until you hear it—his laugh. You glance up. He’s already in your usual seat. But he’s not alone. There’s a girl next to him—cute, brunette, sparkly earrings. Laughing with her hand on his arm like they’re in the middle of a joke. And Sukuna? He’s laughing too. That low, easy laugh he uses when he’s genuinely amused. His whole body turned toward her. His eyes crinkled at the corners. Familiar.

Too familiar. It shouldn’t matter. He’s not your boyfriend. You never asked him to be. But something curdles in your stomach, this horrible bitter twist of heat and nausea. Because he’s never laughed like that with anyone else—not that you’ve seen. That was yours. You sit on the other side of the lecture hall. You don’t text him back that night. Or the next. You’re not cold. Just… distant. Muted. Detached. You don’t flirt. You don’t roll your eyes when he calls you names. You don’t even rise to the bait when he eats the last of your chips and says, “You snooze, you lose.” You just nod, distracted. Quiet. The first time he tries to pull you into his lap during a break, you shrug him off.

The third time it happens, he snaps. “The fuck is going on with you?” You glance up from your notebook, eyebrows raised. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit,” he says, jaw tense. “You’ve been acting weird all week.” You look at him flatly. “I’ve been busy.”

“With what? Avoiding me?” The words hang heavy in the air. He stares at you across the room, breathing hard, the project open on your laptop but completely forgotten. Your throat is tight.

“Forget it,” you mutter, pushing back your chair. He grabs your wrist. Not hard. Just enough to make you stop.

“Tell me what’s wrong.” You inhale, shaky. “I saw you. In class. With that girl.”

His expression shifts, confusion tightening into something sharper. “What girl?”

“The one you were laughing with,” you say, voice brittle. “It’s not a big deal. I just—forgot who you are, I guess. You can talk to whoever you want.” He stares at you. Like he doesn’t know whether to scream or laugh. “Are you serious right now?”

You rip your arm from his grip. “Yeah, actually.”

“That was my cousin, you idiot.” You freeze. “What?”

“My cousin. From Osaka. She was visiting campus and sat in for class,” he says, exasperated. “Jesus, you thought I was flirting?”

“You were laughing with her!”

“I laugh with you more than anyone! Does that mean I’m flirting with you too?”

“Yes!” you blurt, and then immediately regret it. His eyes narrow. “So you do see it.” You open your mouth. Close it. Your face burns. He steps forward, close enough to make your pulse jump. “You’re jealous.” You look away. “No, I’m—”

He cuts you off. “You are. And you know what? Good. ’Cause I’ve been going fucking insane pretending we’re just study buddies who coincidentally spend every second together and coincidentally fuck and coincidentally sleep in the same bed, but can’t call each other anything real.” You stare at him, breathless.

“I like you,” he says, low and hoarse. “I like you so much it’s driving me nuts. And if you don’t feel the same—fine. But don’t act like I haven’t been making it obvious.” You swallow hard. “You have a fucked-up way of showing it.”

He snorts. “You’re one to talk. Giving me the silent treatment because I laughed once?”

“You laughed like you do with me,” you whisper. “That’s what hurt.”

Something flickers in his expression—something soft and real. He cups your jaw.

“I only laugh like that with you,” he says, voice thick. “I only want to laugh like that with you.” Your heart stumbles. “Now shut up,” he mutters, “so I can kiss you.” You do. And he does—hard, hungry, like he’s been waiting for years. Hands are in your hair, yours are on his shoulders, and everything finally clicks into place. When you pull back, flushed and breathless, he grins. “Well. You’re my girlfriend now.” You blink. “That’s not romantic at all.” He kisses your cheek. “Didn’t say it was. But it’s the truth.” You shove his chest. “You suck.” He just grins harder, tugging you back in. “Not what you were saying last week. In fact, you were sucking it.” You groan. But you don’t argue. Because yeah—you’re his now. And he's yours. Officially.

–

Sukuna’s room is warmer than usual. The window’s cracked, the scent of pine air freshener battling the distinct smell of boy—clean laundry, leftover cologne, something vaguely woodsy. You’re cross-legged on his bed, surrounded by notebooks and crumpled printouts, while he’s sitting in his desk chair with one foot up on the edge, tapping away at the final slides of your presentation. Toji passed by the door earlier and shouted, “Yo, project couple!” before Sukuna flipped him off and slammed the door shut with his heel. You’re both halfway through your second coffees, the last dregs sloshing around your cups. The project’s done for real now—just tweaks now. Alignment stuff. Graph polish. The usual shit that seems small until it’s 2 a.m. and your brain starts melting.

“You typed ‘photochemistray,’” you murmur, leaning forward to peer at his screen. He doesn’t even look up. “No I didn’t.”

“Yes you did.”

“I don’t make typos.” You snort. “You make so many typos.”

“I make sexy typos.”

“‘Photochemistray’ sounds like a bootleg brand of nerd lingerie.” He finally glances over, one brow raised. “You say that like it’s not a market I could corner.”

You throw a pillow at him. He laughs, full and low and so familiar it warms your stomach. That sound’s become muscle memory at this point. Embedded into your damn soul. The moment settles. Quiet for a beat. His keyboard clacks, and you start flipping through your notes, eyes skimming blankly. Then, out of nowhere, your voice slips into the silence. “Y’know… we’ve technically talked before this semester.” 

He glances up. “What?”

“Like, you and me. Before we got partnered.” He blinks. “When?” You hesitate. “That freshman welcome thing. In the orientation lecture hall. They made people from different majors introduce themselves. I stood up and said something about being interested in environmental science.” He frowns, clearly digging through his brain.

“And I stuttered,” you add, dryly. “And you—very loudly—mocked me from the back row.” There’s a beat. His face changes. Just slightly. Jaw tightening.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. You said something like, ‘Damn. Spit it out, dumbass.’”

He winces. “Shit.” You shrug, trying to brush it off. “I mean, whatever. It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Yeah, it was,” he says immediately, looking at you now with that intense, unreadable stare. “I was an asshole. I didn’t even remember that was you.” You shrug again, but it feels a little thinner this time. “You weren’t wrong. I was stuttering.”

“Doesn’t fucking matter,” he says. “I was a piece of shit. I’m sorry.” The quiet that follows isn’t awkward—it’s just… charged. The way he says it, that gravel in his voice. The way he’s leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, rings glinting under the dim desk lamp. It does something to you.

“Didn’t think the Ryomen Sukuna apologized,” you say lightly. He lifts a brow. “Only when I mean it.” You nod slowly. Then: “Guess I’m honored.” His eyes narrow—playfully, but there’s heat there now. “You should be.” Your heart skips. You stretch your legs out, feigning boredom. But the hem of your shorts rides up, and his gaze flickers down—lingers. You see the change in his posture. The way his foot drops from the desk, his chair creaking as he shifts.

“I wasn’t gonna say anything,” he says, voice lower now. “But you’ve been sitting there looking like that for the past hour and it’s getting hard to think.” You blink. “Like what?”

He tilts his head, mouth twitching. “All pretty and smug. Like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing to me.” You raise a brow. “I’m literally in a hoodie and gym shorts.”

“And yet,” he says, slowly standing. “Here I am. In physical pain.”

You scoff. “Maybe focus on the final slide instead of your dick.”

“Maybe stop sitting there looking like a fucking sin,” he mutters, now crossing the space between you. You don’t move. You can’t. Your breath is caught somewhere in your chest as he stops right in front of the bed, towering over you, eyes hooded. “Can I?” he asks, voice quieter. Rougher. You nod. The shift is immediate. His hands slide up your thighs, slow and deliberate, as he kneels onto the bed, caging you in. His mouth brushes the shell of your ear as he whispers, “Didn’t like that I hurt your feelings.” 

You swallow. “You didn’t. Not really.”

“I did,” he murmurs, kissing the side of your neck. “And now I’m gonna make it up to you.” Your breath stutters. He pulls back just enough to look at you—his thumb grazing your jaw, eyes dark and locked on yours. “You good?” he asks, tone shifting just slightly—checking in. You nod. “Yeah.”

“Say it.”

“I’m good.”

That’s all it takes. His mouth crashes into yours, all heat and teeth and months of tension bleeding out between your lips. His hand finds your waist, gripping you like he’s been starving. You slide your fingers into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. The laptop slides off the bed with a thunk, forgotten. You pull him down with you, and he goes easily, one knee slipping between your thighs, his weight bracing over you. He kisses like he studies—focused, intense, overwhelming. His tongue licks into your mouth and your brain just short-circuits. He looks at you for a long second. Then, suddenly, grabs your waist and pulls you into his lap.

“Also,” he murmurs, breath hot against your neck, “for the record, if I’d known the hot chem girl from freshman year would end up riding me like five times a week, I would’ve introduced myself sooner. And not have been such an asshole to you.” You slap his chest. “That’s your way of apologizing?”

“Yeah, but you like it.” You kiss him to shut him up, and somehow, that turns into another hour of not reviewing the presentation.

–

it’s the final day, and your name’s being called. You head to the front of the class with your laptop while Sukuna follows, looking every bit the cocky, casually dressed bastard he’s always been—except now he’s your cocky, casually dressed bastard. He nods at the front row like he’s about to win a Grammy, and you nudge his ribs. A significant portion of the project requires an overview accompanied with an oral presentation, so here you are.

“Behave.”

“I’m always well-behaved,” he mutters, grabbing the clicker. You start the intro. He takes over halfway through. You can’t help but grin a little—because he’s good. Actually good. Clear, confident, no stuttering, and he even makes Professor Shimizu laugh with a sarcastic quip about the data trend in one of the chemical reactions. And then, without thinking, he leans down and kisses your cheek. Like it’s second nature. The room doesn’t even react that much—probably because no one’s shocked anymore—but when the class ends and people start packing up, Professor Shimizu catches your arm. She grins. “Isn’t that the same boy you were begging me not to pair you with at the start of the semester?”

Your face burns. “We had…a rocky beginning.”

“Mmm,” she says, amused. “Well, you turned it around. Solid work. And the chemistry was palpable.” You groan. “Please don’t say chemistry.” But she’s already walking away, still smiling to herself. After class, Sukuna drives you back to your dorm like always. One hand on the wheel, one resting over your thigh like he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it. Halfway through the drive, he queues something on his phone. And the soft strum of Faye Webster's She Won’t Go Away fills the car. You whip your head toward him. “No fucking way.” 

He doesn’t look at you. “Don’t start.”

“You said this was depression music for people who get dumped in the rain.” He clicks his tongue. 

“Yeah, well. Maybe I like that kinda concept now.” You cover your mouth with a gasp. “You’re evolving.”

“I’m gonna shove you out of this moving car.” 

You’re already singing by the chorus, and even though he groans, you catch him mouthing the words beside you. He tries to act like he’s just being ironic, but his fingers tap the rhythm on your leg, and he keeps the song on repeat the whole ride. By the time he pulls up to your dorm, the sun’s setting. You lean in, eyes soft, smile lazy. “That was kinda romantic,” you murmur. 

He scoffs. “Don’t get used to it.” You kiss him anyway. And when you pull back, he’s watching you with that grin. The one that’s half smug, half stupidly, hopelessly fond. “You know,” he says, “if you weren’t so annoying, I might’ve asked you to be my girlfriend sooner.” You blink. “That was the least romantic thing I’ve ever heard. Like, worse when we had that little argument and you just told me that I was your girlfriend now.”

“Yeah, well.” He shrugs. “You didn’t fall for me because I’m romantic.” 

You narrow your eyes. “Why did I fall for you, actually?”

He leans in close. “Probably the dick.” You shove him away, laughing. “God, you’re disgusting.”

“And yet,” he says, as you open the car door, “you’re still letting me hit. Also, this song, I actually really like it–”

You squint. “Are you saying this to get laid?”

“No,” he mutters. “But if it works, I won’t complain.” You slam the door in his face, but you’re grinning. And he’s still smiling when you look back through the window.

a/n: i had way too much fun writing this lollll now i need sukuna!!!

also, honourable tag for @writesvani bc of whom i actually had the motivation of writing this because she sent the most beautiful words of support 2 me after whisper of the heart. thank u so much and ily immensely <3

tags: @tracysdemise @perqbeth @fushiguroooozzz @bowlware @yuunice @xxstormyprincessxx @bnbaochauuu @beabamboo @erintaro @altgojo @sugurulefttesticle @minascasket @rinofcike @captainquake42 @pinkpookiebear @hellowoolf @clp-84 @yit-tk @nessca153 @domainofmarie @crunchyholo @emochosoluvr @sukubusss @being-blue-is-better @nikilig @syubseokie

[darkbluestateofgrace]

There’s something so weird and full circle about Taylor’s first massive hit being a song about her parents disapproval of a love affair, only for her to write another song over ten years later that uses her parents disapproval as a metaphor for her own fans disapproval

[morganalatina21]

Too Sweet - OP81

When Lando tries to play matchmaker with his two friends, the negative response comes from someone he did not imagine

or

When Oscar wants to prove you wrong

warnings: English isn't my first language, not proofread, mentions of alcohol and weed, smut, unprotected sex, car sex. Smut have warning before it starts and after it ends! - MDNI!!!!

word count: around 2k

"What do you mean 'no'?" Lando looked at you as if you grown a second head. "Don't play nonchalant about this, that's his thing. I've heard you ramble about him before."

"Yep." You agreed, sipping your drink.

"So why the fuck not?" He crossed his arms. "You'd be bloody great together."

"Do you really think that, muppet?" You bit back, eyes still lifeless staring back at him. Lando nodded. "You don't understand man. I like him? Yes. Very much. So much is inebriating." You confessed, looking almost... tired?

"But I've come to the terms that we would never work." Your shoulders moved up and down. "We are so fucking different Lan, and you know that. He's like, kind and a ray of sunshine. I'm a mess, you should know this, I'm friends with you, that's telling."

"I'm gonna ignore this outrage statement because I'm on a bigger mission here." He continued, knowing you were deviating the conversation. "The fuck is that coming from?"

"When you like someone that much, you star to try and match your stuff with them." You shrugged, adjusting your hair on the mirror. "And as much as I want to, we just- don't. That's like you said, he is nonchalant, I'm way too chalant. He is so sweet, Im bitter. He is all composed and... I dunno... Like those fitness influencers who have insane wellness routines? You know. And I'm the entire opposite. He's sweet as a grape."

"Are you quoting Hozier's Too Sweet at me right now?" His green eyes looked at you in disbelief. "Are you for real?"

"Kinda."

"Okay I know you may be having doubts, but why not try? It's better than not try, right?"

"Okay now you're just quoting The Good Place at me." You mocked, hearing people bang on the door to the bathroom. "But you know that I'm way too down bad for him to just try and go along with it. I'm usually cool with this kinds of stuff, but... I know I'll just be delusional and want more with him."

"So make us both a favor and drop it, because I don't wanna have my heart broken, and you don't wanna hear me whining about it, sir Norris."

Oscar's eyes were trained on you the moment you left the bathroom with Lando at his house party. You and Lando knew each other since kids, and it was very obvious to everyone in that house, including him, that nothing would ever happen between the two of you.

You noticed his glance and just offered him a small smile before turning and starting a conversation with Max Fewtrell, yours and Lando's best friend.

"Thought you said that'd work." He commented when Lando came up to him. "I really shouldn't trust your matchmaking skills, remember the redhead you tried to hook me up with in Vegas?"

"Hey, she was hot! And liked koalas."

"She liked spiders."

"You grew up with both, mate, whatever." Oscar shooked his head with a smile on his face. "And she wants you, she's just worried you might not want her."

"What?"

"She didn't believe when I said you were down to meet her. She thinks I'm setting her up with someone who does not want her."

"Why would she think that? You did that before?"

"Not the case right now. She thinks that because she basically doesn't think she's good enough for you."

The softest "what" came out of Piastri's lips.

"Yeah, she even quoted Hozier at me."

"I... don't know what that means."

Later that day, when he was in bed, smeling a bit like alcohol and feeling his body light from the drinking, Lando's words came back to him. He was waiting to sober up more, although he was probably the most sober out of everyone in that party, including you, who at some point started trying to teach Pietra how to creepwalk, to which, you failed.

He kept watching you that night, from some distance, of course, to try and understand what you meant to Lando when you said "too different".

And to be honest, he kinda got that.

You weren't necessarily and extrovert, at least with those you didn't know, but with your friends, wow were you outgoing.

You and Max were doing shots at random moments of the night, a bet to see who would fall first. You'd drink whataver he drank, and he'd drink whatever you drank.

He smoked some weed, so you did too.

You took jello shots made purely out of the cheapest vodka you could find, so he did too.

Lando and Pietra were trying to keep up with the two of you, but it was in vain. You two were on fire.

And to be honest, Oscar liked that.

You probably didn't see it, but you were both bold, only on different aspects of life.

And he wanted to show you that.

So, phone in hand, he texted Lando, who was already on his own room, probably with some fling of his. The party had died down and only a few people were left, including you, who were downstairs probably playing truth or dare or never have I ever with the other survivors of the night, and him, who was in a guest room.

[What did u meant when you mentioned Hozier earlier?] seen 2:38a.m.

[she quoted his song to me]

[too sweet, look it up im busy] seen 2:40a.m.

[At least tell me the name of the song so i can search it, man] 2:40a.m.

[are youo actually stupid? the name of the song is TOO SWEET, im not compliemnting you mate.] seen 2:40a.m.

[i knew that] seen 2:41a.m.

[sure you did] seen 2:41 a.m.

Spotify open. He typed down those two words and sure enough, a song by an Irish man popped up. The beat was kinda animated, and he didn't though to bother searching up the internet to see what other thought of that song.

He took his own conclusion.

"If you can sit in a barrell, maybe I'll wait". In his slightly disturbed mind, that meant he still had a shot. He just needed to prove you two weren't so different.

And while drunk, he took an oath to do that.

.

For the 2024 season, Lando had hired you as his personal counselor, which was just an excuse for you to travel around the world with him.

The reason why? Oscar didn't knew, but he wasn't complaining.

That meant seeing you around the paddock a lot, even til the highest hours of the night after each race, post-debriefs and everything.

Today was one of those days.

It was after a session of FP1 and FP2 of the US Grand Prix, and the post-practice debrief had just ended, people moving around and starting to leave.

Oscar gathered his stuff and was ready to walk to his own car and leave.

That's when he spotted you.

On one of the halls from the McLaren hospitality, walking around in a jacket he did not recognize as any of the teams merch.

"Are you switching scuderias?" He asked, nodding the jacket direction, startling you.

You looked down, almost forgetting which clothes you were wearing. "Oh that's just from the next NASCAR winning team."

"You like NASCAR?"

"I was very frustrated when I realized Cars was about NASCAR and not F1, I might switch motorsports." You smiled.

"Good luck cheering for Joe Gibbs."

"Oh which one do you choose? Spire?"

"No, never. 23XI is way better."

You rolled your eyes at his statement, a small smile still on your lips, a huge one on his.

"I'll laugh to your face when Denny Hamlin ends Riley on track next cup, Piastri."

"It's on, Y/ln."

Two days later, after the Grand Prix, Oscar dropped the bomb on the interview.

"... Maybe we should just adopt NASCAR rules and end things on track." A knowing smile on his lips, looking at the camera.

He wanted you to know. He made sure of it, it wasn't just some comment, there was more.

"Mate, NASCAR rules? Are you insane?" Lando asked later, watching you perk up at that mention.

Oscar smiled and watched you, barely giving his teammate any recognition. You searched the internet, the key words you never thought would be put together: "Oscar Piastri + NASCAR".

And sure enough, there it was, the interview.

You looked up at him, slightly flabbergasted and changed your expression to a smile.

And God, did he love that smile.

.

"Disrespectfully, Fuck Papaya Rules."

Oscar phisically perked up when he heard that. He was strolling around the paddock and caught you talking with reserve McLaren driver, Pato O'Ward.

"Not only that's dumb, but honestly, fuck-ass name for a strategy."

He chuckled at that, hearing you from around the corner.

"Honestly I don't know if I'd follow that if I ever fill in for any of them." Pato admitted, shrugging. "I understand when it's for the Constructors Championship but Drivers? Fuck that."

"My favorite moment so far is when Oscar cut him right on the beginning, it was kind of a 'fuck your championship' moment, I live for that."

"Lando's gonna fire you if he hears you say that." Pato laughed. "Remember when you hit him because he didn't spray Oscar on the Hungary podium?"

"And I'd do it again."

"You hit Lando to defend me?" Oscar asked later that day, on the parking lot, as you were waiting for your friend.

You looked up at him and his smug smile.

That actually caught you unexpected. Oscar was coy, you knew that, but he was getting progressively bolder and more challenging.

It messed with your brain.

"You eavesdropping?"

"I just like to hear when people talk about me." He admitted. "Don't you?"

"No. I hate knowing what people think of me."

Oscar chuckled. That was kind of perfect, because he wasn't good with words.

"I promise I won't tell you what I think of you if I can give you a ride back to the hotel."

That was the main difference between you and Oscar: you were provocative, alluring, liked to get under people's skin, while he was straightforward, deadpan and liked to see people's reaction to brutal honesty.

"Sure."

.

It was the last race of a triple header, Brasil.

Five DNFs, the race and the quali delayed so many times, it was exhausting. Oscar finished P8, which, yes, was a bad position, but he was glad he at least finished the race, unlike five other drivers.

He was so tired, and it showed on his face.

No one even dared ask him or Lando how they were feeling because it was obvious, so he pratically slipped away from the mechanics and engineers.

And he found you. Sitting on the floor, back to the wall that separated his and Lando's driver room, texting rapidly.

He wanted so bad to have you to him, to talk to you before media duties, to have you on his driver room alone. But he and Lando weren't exactly on the best terms, so he couldn't just snatch away his friend.

Or couldn't he?

"Lando's gonna be late." He said, snatching your attention immediately. "If you want to come in."

"Yeah, in a sec." You went back to typing right away.

"You texting someone?" You nodded but answered back:

"Since when do you care?"

"I don't know, I just want your attention." There it was again, the honesty. "I mean, the person you might be texting can be cool and all but, do they drive at 300km/h for McLaren?"

You stopped, looking up at him, almost not believing those words actually came out of his mouth.

"He doesn't..." He smiled. "He actually drives for Mercedes and is a 7 time world champion."

"You're texting Lewis?" Oscar asked softly, smile vanishing. "Isn't he too old for you?"

"First of all, Lewis Hamilton could never be 'too old'. And second, It's not like you're thinking." You pushed yourself up, entering his room. "I'm just congratulating him on the Senna homage and asking what he wants to get me tickets for the next Kendrick Lamar concert."

"I don't know how many times I can offer to babysit Roscoe."

Oscar closed the door behind him, a sigh of relief leaving his lips.

He launched himself on the nearest armchair he could find and groaned, feeling his body ache, trying to stop the shakes on his body from being wet with the cold wind.

"Are you okay?" Y/n asked, voice dripping with concern.

"Yeah. My back's killing me, and I think I'm going to have a cold."

"Take a hot shower, I'll grab you some medicine." She instantly put the phone down, marching towards the door, but was interrupted when Oscar held her wrist.

"Stay." The word came out murmured, a gentle plea, his eyes closed. "Please."

It was weird seeing him like that, so vulnerable, so desirous, it made your heart fumble when he opened those soft brown eyes. So you nodded.

"But you're gonna lie down and get warm. I don't want you sick."

He obliged, draggin himself -and you on the processes, because he couldn't let go of you- towards the improvised bed he had on his driver room.

"But what if-" Oscar began, starting to lie down. "I get sick so I can escape from the media duties?"

"Can you do that?"

"It's worth a shot."

You smiled, pulling a chair to be close to him still, to which he thanked with a smile.

Surely after, Oscar fell asleep. You know it wasn't ideal, but you stood by and watched him peacfully sleeping. He was so soft, so cat-like, so pretty.

Your heart ached with how much you liked him.

And maybe, even though he didn't knew, he was showing you how you two could be a match.

When he woke up, half an hour later, you weren't there already, but he found the medicine you said he needed with a small note that said "You snore like a cat purrs (take care), Y/n."

He smiled ear to ear, almost all of the fatigue gone. He folded the note and tucked it in one of the pockets of his bag, leaving to the unfortunate meeting with the media.

Later that day, as Y/n was getting to her hotel room when she noticed something hanging from the doorknob.

It was a keychain in the shape of a cat, with a small note that read "To remember me".

Y/n rolled her eyes, but with a small smile on her face, that turned into a shock expression the moment she saw the things attached to it: two tickets for the Kendrick Lamar concert.

"Oscar Jack Piastri, you little devil."

.

"How was the concert?" Oscar asked, a knowing smile on his lips.

Y/n smiled widely. It has been a couple of months since Oscar Piastri started pursuing you; you ended up knowing what he was up to when Lando commented that he was determined.

And dear God, he was.

And it moved you.

You don't remember ever someone putting this much effort for you. That alone, warranted some points on his advantage.

"It was good, I actually ended up meeting Snoop Dogg also and we talked a lot about West Side." You rambled, watching his eyes get lost, trying to search his brain for any information about any of the words you just said. "I'm just messing with you. It really meant a lot to me so, thank you."

"Anytime."

"You need a ride to the hotel?" He offered. "Think Lando's not going back any time soon."

You looked back to the door for the party, the music still so loud, lights flashing in different colors and you could almos feel the smell of alcohol even from this distance.

Usually, you'd be inside going crazy too, celebrating that the team you work for had finally won the Constructor's Championship after so many years not knowing what that feels like.

But you were tired. So you took Oscar's offer.

His car smelt new, even though he had this car for quite some time now, his cologne, a strong woody scent mixed with the fresh odor of the seats.

"So, how does it feel, huh?" You asked right after he started driving. "Constructor's champions."

"It's amazing." He answered, and you could feel the tiredness and happiness from his tone. "It's exactly that, a reward for all the hard work."

"Driver's championship next?"

"For me I hope so."

"Next season's gonna be amazing." You smiled, hiding the sadness. "I mean, five rookies on the grid, Hamilton at Ferrari, hopefully Max's downfall?"

"May God hear you, Y/n."

"This sport was missing some emotion." Oscar stared at you from the side of his eyes as you entered the highway, which was completely desert due to high hours of the night. "I mean, to you guys there's always emotion but that's because you're driving, to us just watching cars go around and no overtakes, no fun business is kinda boring."

A mischiveous glint shone on Oscar's eyes as he pushed the throttle pedal further and further with each word you said.

"Osc, what are you doing?"

"Just thought you'd like a piece of the emotion like we have." He opened the windows, a huge smile on.

The adrenaline rushed through your muscles, eyes blown wide as the velocity increased, starting to grip the seat as you laughed. Oscar was so normal about it he was even driving with only one hand on the wheel.

"Fuck it, Imma act like a dog."

Oscar laughed genuinely as you loosened the seatbelt and propped your head out of the window, the wind forcing your skin and giving you goosebumps.

You could barely breathe but that was a whole part of the fun.

"Oh my God this is amazing!"

"Emotion enough for you?"

"God, how are you guys so normal after every race?" You asked, sitting back down, heart beating so fast inside your chest. "I'd feel like I'm on the top of the world, honestly."

The song on the radio pushed your pulse to quicken even more. You opted for keeping your head inside to talk to Oscar, but one hand was out, dancing with the wind.

"God, I'm gonna miss this."

"What?!"

Shit.

He wasn't supposed to hear that, not yet.

You sighed, putting a hand on high thigh, feeling him tense up. "You can slow down now." He did, eyes constantly darting back to your hand, touching him. "The reason I was flying around with Lando and the team was because he wanted to give me new opportunities. And I got one in Italy, as a fashion designer. This is my last night working for McLaren."

Oscar couldn't believe what he was hearing, all his effort, all that he was dreaming for, to have you by his side every race just like this season but this time, as his partner.

He kind of thanked you for telling him to slow down, because his head was spinning.

"Italy is close to Monaco, no?"

"It's in Milan, a three hour drive." You answered, lightly caressing his thigh. "Lando already knew of that possibility, no one was supposed to get attached to me. I'm sorry, Osc."

He parked the car in front of the hotel, both hands now on the wheel as he was trying to calm down and grasp the reality of everything going on.

You were leaving.

He felt your hand lifting up from his pants and immediately grabbed it.

"I'm not giving you up."

"Osc-" "No."

"I didn't come this far just to lose you, not now."

"You're not losing me." He looked at you. "I'll just- I'll be in the country next door." You smiled tightly. "But it's okay if you don't want someone who can't accompany you, I get it."

"You'd wait for me?"

"What?"

Oscar blinked, his grip on your hand tightening, eyes intense as if he was begging.

"Wait for me, to be back from the races, wait for the breaks?"

"Osc that's thing long relationships go through, we don't know if it'd work and-"

He held your face. Gently, sweet, almost too sweet.

"We have until March. I want to try. I could never ask you to give up on something you want so bad, so that's why I'm asking you to not give up on us."

Us. That knocked all the air from your lungs.

"I can see it in your face. You want this just as badly as I do." Oscar's voice was low, sending shivers down your spine with the way he talked. "I already showed you how much of a match we can be, let me show you we can make this work."

You shouldn't, you really really shouldn't. If it all went south you didn't know if you could recover from him.

But it was hard to think when he was this close.

So you made a decision.

Even if it slipped away, it'd have claw marks from you. You were ready to try and keep him in your life with all your strength.

So you launched yourself forward, capturing his lips.

SMUT AHEAD - YOU'VE BEEN WARNED

His kiss was desperate, hands full on launching themselves at your body and holding you tight, as if you'd start to slip away right this moment.

"Osc! On the car?" You laughed, breaking the kiss, to which he immediately bent his head down to kiss your neck.

"Just this once." He was almost begging, trying to get you free from the seatbelt and into his lap. "I've wanted you for so long, love, please."

Too sweet? No, just the right amount.

You clicked your seatbelt and pushed it away, hopping onto his seat, back meeting the steering wheel, chest to chest, knees barely on the seat from how big his legs were.

The impression was that Oscar was ravenous, like a hungry man, devouring every inch of your skin he could, levaing behind a trace of his saliva and maybe some hickies, but neither of you cared.

His breathing was uneven, hands roaming your body like it was the curves of a circuit he needed to remember and dominate.

"Osc-" You hummed, feeling his hard-on pressing against you, dry humping it, pulling moans from both of you. "Fuck!"

"Didn't peg you as a tits guy." You laughed upon noticing both his hands lodged around your boobs, guiding you through them to ride his erection.

"I'm a Y/n guy, everything about you drives me insane." He confessed, moving his right hand to your ass, moving your body around his lap, feeling your thighs shake against his hips. "Love, please."

Your hands traveled down his chest, nails grazing his skin on top of the formal suit he had on. He looked like a prince, even though he was ready to fuck you like a soldier. Finally, your hands worked fast to take his belt off and open his pants.

His cock, finally freed from his underwear, was so hard already and leaking with pre-cum. You smeared it around as started playing with his tip, feeling his hips buck upwards.

You were looking at his face atently, seeing his expressions falter at your touch.

Oscar's eyes found your and they were dark like never before.

"You're such a fucking tease." He complained, stirring around, trying to feel more of your touch.

"Someone has to take the lead, huh?"

A spark flew past his eyes, hand moving up and grabbing a fistful of your hair, yanking it harshly.

"Osc!" You whined, head thrown back as his grip didn't loosen even slightly, sending a heat wave down your body, allodging itself in your pulsating core.

"Someone has to take the lead, right love?" He snapped back, a huge smile on his face as he watched you shake. "Enough with the teasing, pull your panties to the side and sink on my dick."

Fumbling with your hands, you found the slit of your dress and tucked your hand inside, founding the laced fabric that was already drenched, pulling it to the side.

Oscar helped you lodge on top of him, lining up your entrance and his lenght, one hand still holding you tightly by the hair and the other moving your ass around.

"Fuck, love!" He moaned as you started sitting on him, caressing your head, making you shiver and tighten even more. "When you feel it all inside you, you can take the lead back, m'kay?"

Your lips met each other's, drinking the moans away.

The further you sank on him, the more he sank on the driver's seat, feeling all the tension leave his body, finally feeling your insides.

Fully inside, he let go of your hair as he promised and allodged both hands on your hips, gripping you bot not forcing you to move.

"Think you're gonna last?" You asked, opening the buttons to his shirt, positioning both hans on each side of his chest.

He opened his eyes, the dark hungry was still there, much softer now, he looked drunk and so languidly happy. "We can leave the torture for the next times, can't we love?"

You wanted to tease him, and say maybe, that now the lead was back to your hands, you were going to make him last painfully, but you felt the tight knot on your low womb, and knew even you weren't going to last.

"Okay, Osc."

And you started to ride him, watching him give in and just become a moaning mess, still holding tight to your waist but completely gone.

"Fuck, love, you're- you're too good!"

You also didn't thought Oscar was going to be so talkative during sex, given his nonchalant ways, but when given pleasure he turned into a bubbling mess, talking nonsense.

"So good, so worth the wait." He mumbled, pulling you closer and moaning in your lips as you two kissed again. "You ride me so well." He kept going, as you started kissing his neck, wanting to hear more. "Don't stop, please don't stop, love."

His hands restored to gripping your waist and travelling up sometimes to carress your tits on top of your dress.

"You should be wearing less clothes, love, you're so pretty." He complained. "Are you close?"

"Mhmm."

"So am I. Cum with me, love." He groaned, voice too raw for his own good, messing around with your head. "Come on, baby." His hips started snapping up, meeting you halfway your ride.

A strained whine left your lips, hugging his shoulders and propping your head on your arms, launching your moans directly into his ear, pushing him further down his high.

"I'm- I'm gonna-"

Both your bodies started to shake and his big arms hugged you, pulling you closer, locking you in him as his cum spurted inside you, your knot finally snapping.

"You okay?" He asked a few moments later, feeling you go limp on top of him. "Still with me?"

"Shut it, Osc."

"Yeah, you're back."

You laughed, hugging him one last time before pulling up from him, immediately putting your panties back in place and returning to the passanger's seat as he zipped his pants back on.

He turned on the AC to clear the windows that became foggy from the heat irradiating from both of you.

You fixed your hair as much as you could, knowing it'd probably be ruined again when you went up to his hotel room. He offered you his blazer, to which you happily took and let it engulf you, hiding the hickied left on your neck.

He went around the car to open your door for you, helping you on your feet as he noticed your legs still shaking. He had that smug smile you got used to on the beggining of your flirting and it made you want to kiss him stupid.

"You think your plan of convincing me we're a match was 100% successfull?" You asked, crossing the hotel lobby still holding his arm, heading toward the elevator.

He leaned into you, voice just above a whisper, only for you to hear. "My cum is leaking out your pussy, you tell me."

You suffocated a smile, desperately pressing the button for the elevator.

SMUT ENDS HERE- WELCOME BACK!

.

"Okay so, I need to know." Lando asked, it was the day after the celebration, you were sharing a breakfast on the McLaren private jet with the rest of the crew.

You were sitting beside Oscar, Lando in front of you two, a little hungover but still curious.

"We're not telling you anything."

"You owe me this, I had to sit through one hour meeting with the pr team about not fucking in cars in the parking lot."

You choked a laugh, tecnically your contract with Lando was over, and you weren't a part of the McLaren anymore, so you got to sleep while Oscar and Lando had to be awake for a very stern lecture.

"Honestly, if you keep doing shit like this I'm gonna make you two pay for my therapy."

"Bill me, mate." Oscar snapped back, a huge smile on his face as he took one sip of a milk glass.

"Fuck you!" Lando answered immediately, shock written all over his face. "Honestly, I should've never put you two together."

"You didn't do shit." You retorted, throwing Lando even further down the insane hill.

He started to ramble about how he was the first matchmaker, how he handled you two talking about each other to him and it almost drove him insane, while you and Oscar just smiled.

You layed your head on Oscar's shoulder, sighing.

He was sweet, but never too sweet for you.

You breathed in his scent, a sharp woody masculine perfume that mixed perfectly with your sweet one. Exactly how you two were supposed to be, boldness in sweetness and sweetness in boldness, completing each other.

And whatever was going to happen to the both of you, you'd fight it, like he fought for you.

april 6th, 2025

Reblogs and feedback are appreciated! ♡

[homunculus-argument]

Sometimes in therapy I feel like I don't have trauma in some correct sort of way. Like I'll be explaining that my childhood wasn't even really traumatic, just kind of bleak and boring. The worst my parents ever made me feel was disappointed, but not surprised. it was all so very mundane. And whenever some therapist asks me what I mean, I'll tell some random story that I happen to remember off the top of my head of what my childhood was like, or one that I think illustrated what kind of people my parents were and what their relationship was like.

Like this one time I remember when I was like 10 or so, I can't remember where we were going but the whole family was getting into the car, and dad started bitching at mom about how come when their first car was in his name, it was their car, and then when they had their own cars they had his car and her car, but now that they only have one car again, it's still just her car.

And then mom bitterly pointed out that the reason why he doesn't have a company benefit car anymore is because he lost his lisence for driving drunk with the kids on board while she was on a business trip. (And while mom didn't bring it up at the time, he had also tried to cover this up and act like nothing had happened. And she wouldn't have found out if my (11/12-year-old at the time?) sister hadn't thought of calling one of mom's friends like "hey cops showed up and took dad so we're home alone now idk what we're supposed to do now" and she came to watch us and told mom.)

...And I was like 10 and sitting quietly on the back seat listening to them bickering about this because they still both bothered to be mad about it. Not mad enough to get divorced or anything, but still bitter enough to bitch at each other about each other. And a therapist will be like wow how did that make you feel, and ???

Bored of it? Disappointed, but not surprised? That was just what life was like. Quietly waiting for bitter adults to be done bickering with each other because you can't do anything to fix this and while they could, they won't do anything to improve their lives. Life was just like that.

[the-bitter-ocean]

(FULL GAME SPOILERS UNDER THE CUT)

I am very normal about Euphrasie. I am. I very much am. I think everyone should listen to this really good ISAT fan song about Euphrasie that’s by evidentlyfresh. You can see how normal I am about her here and here and here but also in the long ass ramble below:

I think about Euphrasie a normal amount and I am very :/ when people say she “doesn’t have a character” because she does actually!!! She is kind and willing to do whatever she felt was right to protect her protege (mirabelle) and her country!! Even at the expense of herself!! She’s silly and lighthearted but also very brave!!

Euphrasie had no idea how the king would’ve reacted to her standing against him- putting the blessing to be immune to the time freezing curse on Mirabelle was extremely risky. The king could have easily killed or badly hurt Euphrasie for that instead of merely just freezing her.

I know we talk about how Mirabelle feels a lot of pressure to save everyone and wonders if she’s doing enough- lamenting that her mentor could’ve done it better..and the truth is Euphrasie is just as filled with guilt over what happens as mirabelle, if not more so!

Not only is she aware of the fact that she has no agency in the loops- she’s one of the few people in the game that knew about the favor trees and wish craft (granted she couldn’t remember how to properly do it) but the fact that she alone was able to figure it out despite all the information on it being locked away in a secret room in a language most people can’t speak and written in the language no one can read without getting a headache)

Even when she has little to no options she still did her best to protect the people she cared about. Also she’s just genuinely so forgiving?? And chipper?? Despite literally everything going wrong? Siffrin straight up yells at her and shoves her/ pushes her when he grew *huge*. She doesn’t hold it against him at all and just takes it in stride:

(shoutout script project for. script)

yall ever. think about this? yeah. yeeeah. ooohgh mdame head housemaiden you are so doomed. girl you are wrapped up in a fate you cannot possibly hope to defy. you are just a vessel for which a wish can be followed through on. you dont have a choice.

[swordgrace]

𝐖𝐎𝐋𝐅𝐒𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃, 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃.

⠀ཾ༵ 𑁍┆ cregan stark x fem!targtower!reader.

SYNOPSIS: as the youngest daughter of alicent hightower, you are wed to the young wolf, cregan stark. what many believe to be a union of strife, such a notion is proven wrong very quickly.

anonymous request.

{ FORMAT: one-shot — requested by anon.

{ WORD COUNT: 6.7K.

{ WARNINGS: SMUT (mdni), arranged marriage, reader is a targtower with pale hair & lilac eyes, skin color unspecified, first time sex (for reader), loss of virginity, p in v sex (unprotected), massive breeding kink, all stark men have a breeding gene, oral sex / cunnilingus (fem!rec), face-sitting, biting/marking, making out, lots of touching, missionary position, talk of having a child, soft ending + aftercare

{ AUTHOR’S NOTE: There’s been a ton of Cregan requests, so I hope that this satisfies a lot of people until I post another! ❤️ Thank you all so much for the incredible requests and support of my work, it means the world to me and I am extremely grateful for all of it. See you guys soon!

𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧, 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐥𝐟 — 𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞, 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐜𝐞.

The North was often regarded as a harsh and unyielding environment, with bitter, stinging winds and snowfalls that could bury men alive beneath their might. Such tales were often told to scare children or dissuade them from leaving the roost.

It was untamed and savage, according to your mother — she who vehemently fought against your betrothal to Cregan Stark, the Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell. A marriage steeped in wariness and discord, you had been pleasantly surprised by your husband’s kindness and warm stoicism.

Piety was a rarity in the bleak, bloodsoaked world you lived within — innocence was a quality as uncommon as a diamond in the rough. When Cregan had been offered such a sacred proposal during the last days of King Viserys I, he nearly scoffed at it.

A Targaryen, a Hightower — he almost imagined that the both of you would not do well together, and that it would become a sour union, made only to please families and uphold duty. His advisors, old men with embittered grudges against the South, cautioned him away from it, imploring him to wed a girl from the Vale or the Reach.

When Cregan Stark met you, clad in pale shades of sage and ivory, with lilac hues and a smile that could melt even the toughest of ice, perhaps it would not be a dreadful marriage after all.

Even with a dragon at your heel, there was something positively resplendent about you — Cregan could feel it within his marrow, a feeling seldom felt by any man locked in an arranged betrothal.

It was your innocuous, tenderhearted nature that beguiled him, as if you unconsciously drew him in with your honey. Your very first meeting happened to be to seal the marriage pact itself before you would be shipped away to the North, to be his wife and the new Lady Stark.

Cregan rarely found himself charmed by anyone, yet you possessed an inner beauty that flourished in his presence. You were your own flame, burning through his hardened exterior. He did not mistake your docile nature for weakness — you possessed a dragon, where he did not.

You were rather taken with him, perplexed by his outward ruggedness and gruff accent, the way in which he carried himself, massive physique clad in the thick trappings of a wolf. He was a mountain of a man, yet he handled you as if you were some precious jewel, sacred and worthy of admiration.

Alicent begrudgingly watched as you, her youngest daughter, untainted by her own fractured morality, was sent away to the North in the hands of some brute. For the good of the Realm, Viserys had told her, but it cut deeper knowing that it was you, her beloved flesh and blood.

Yet, as you found yourself beneath the crimson leaves of the Weirwood Tree in the Godswood, hands bound with Cregan’s own, you forgot about your mother’s bitterness entirely — and you were happy.

The first kiss was one that would make a permanent residence within your memory for lifetimes to come. He had cradled your face, towering over you as if he were a solemn statue, but even you could see the softening within his visage.

King’s Landing was suffocating, more often than not. The animosity that festered between your family smothered you, crushing you beneath its sharp heel. You were no longer surrounded by bitterness and resentment, and instead, cloaked by the protection and warmth of your new husband.

The feast held in honor of your blossoming union was one of merriment, the mood lighthearted and blissful. You sat beside your husband, stomach tumbling with a coil of nerves. Everyone seemed foreign to you, unfamiliar faces with their northern attitudes and odd indifference.

You could not fault anyone for having their suspicions, given your heritage. Being a Targaryen, pale-headed and violet-eyed, bringing your dragon from the South — it must’ve been jarring. Growing into your station as the Lady of Winterfell would be a long and arduous process, but you hoped that Cregan would show you the way.

Oblivious to your Lord-Husband’s smoldering stare, you politely consumed bites of the sugar-dusted fruit cobbler, admiring the vibrant aura within the room. Your wedding gowns were as pure as the driven snow, accented with silver embroidery and lined with pale fleece to keep you warm, given the cold gnaw of winter.

If it weren’t for Cregan’s steadfastness in providing you with a new wardrobe fit for winter, the icy chill would’ve consumed your extremities from the inside-out.

Leaning over within his seat, Cregan reached for your hand, stormy-gray hues churning with a kindness reserved for you. “How are you faring, wife?” He inquired, voice a low rumble; a soothing timbre that sent shivers down your spine.

“Very well,” Warmth crawled along your flesh when he referred to you as wife so openly and affectionately. You weren’t accustomed to having someone be so attentive to you, hang upon your every word, treat you with such courteousness. “This is so wonderful. I must thank you and your Keep, for your kindness.”

If you were anyone else, Cregan might’ve treated you with a stalwart cordiality found in most formalities, but you were not anyone else. You were good, sweet, and kindhearted — above all, you were quite innocent. He would’ve been telling himself a bold lie if he hadn’t thought about taking you to bed several times already.

The colors of the North suited you — his home suited you. Not many men of his position were so lucky when it came to betrothals, but he felt as if he was beyond fortunate to have married you. Cregan only hoped to be a good husband to you and to your future children, heirs to Winterfell, with the blood of the dragon and the wolf in their veins.

He had forbidden a bedding ceremony, content to guide you to your chambers once the festivities ceased, instead. Cregan enjoyed observing you and your demure mannerisms, from the way you made small talk with those around you, complimenting the choice of food and drink. It warmed his heart to know that his wife was an amiable soul.

“You needn’t worry, Princess. It is my duty as your husband to show you a bit of Northern hospitality.” Cregan mused, a ghost of a smile tugging at either corner of his mouth. He rarely showed any emotion, let alone treating his subjects with a smile given his hardiness, but he did show a sliver of it for you. He didn’t want to scare you away.

With a delighted smile, your hand shyly curled around his, your skin unblemished and soft. Cregan hadn’t touched a woman as silky as you, and it made his blood run hot — an inopportune time, given that it was in the midst of his wedding feast. “Thank you, my Lord.” You weren’t sure if you were permitted to abandon formalities just yet.

Cregan huffed, gaze twinkling with amusement as he let your smaller hand hold his own, digits tenderly caressing over your knuckles. “I would hope that you only call me ‘my Lord’ if you’re angry with me,” His chest rumbled with an affectionate sound. “You aren’t in King’s Landing anymore.”

Embarrassment rippled through you, but before you could correct yourself out of anxiousness, Cregan gingerly squeezed your hand. Instead, it evoked a smile from you, the very same tender expression you’d given him when you were proclaimed as his wife. “I will call you husband when I am pleased with you.” You mused, bright as could be, and so blissfully naive.

Often regarded as a brooding, serious man with little traces of humor, Cregan found himself letting his guard down just enough with you. Of course, to any observer, he still seemed rather stoic, but the brief, fleeting looks he gave you, the threadbare smiles — it suggested otherwise.

As the excitable buzz of the feast began to simmer, Cregan stood from the table, wood scraping across the stone floors of the Great Hall. He stepped away from you, sparing the servants and guardsmen a word before he returned to your side.

“Is there not to be a bedding ceremony?” You whispered, stomach still tight and festering with nervousness. It was something you feared since you last saw Aegon and Helaena be hauled away for such a thing. The concept of it frightened you, twisted and unusual.

With furrowed brows, Cregan shook his head, offering his thick arm out for you to take. “No,” He grunted, noticing the swell of anxiousness etched into your features. “I would never subject you to such a thing, or myself.” He murmured, feeling you take his arm as he led you from the Great Hall.

Relief flooded through you, and you finally relaxed, seemingly appreciative of Cregan’s thoughtfulness in the matter. “Thank you, husband.” You sighed, gripping onto his arm as he led you into a warm corridor and towards a massive spiral of thick, stone steps.

Though, you still had a duty to perform — consummating the marriage, creating an heir. Part of you feared what it all entailed, given that Helaena never seemed pleased with any of it. Would he hurt you? You were uncertain, but you wanted to believe that your new husband would keep you safe.

Cregan welcomed you into your marital chambers, tidied and polished for your stay. Whatever belongings you brought with you, they were situated near a set of fine, wooden chairs circled around a stone table. Everything seemed warm and comely in his quarters, the direwolf aesthetic heavy-handed, the hearth crackling and bursting with ripples of fire.

“If there is something not to your liking, inform me — I will have it rearranged,” Cregan rumbled, following in your footsteps as you neared the open hearth, warming your hands and basking in its glow. He stood close to you, towering over you with his bulk and might. “How are you?” He asked, ensuring your comfort above all else.

There was little need for the hearth when Cregan was near, radiating a natural heat that drew you in. His countenance seemed softer, not nearly as impassive as he’d been before. “I am more than fine, I promise.” You assured him, hands wringing together. “I thought that I would miss home, but I do not. Isn’t that terrible?”

Perplexed, Cregan seemed inclined to listen to your elaboration, chestnut tresses framing his face. “It isn’t a terrible thing, princess. I would imagine that it must be freeing, to be somewhere else. You’ve never left the capital.” He replied, knowing that you were quite sheltered for most of your life.

A soft sigh escaped you, and you tried not to think about it anymore. You didn’t want to sour the mood with talk of home and the past — this was now. “It is liberating,” You confessed, craning to look at him with a semblance of wonder and affection. “I am happy that I’m here with you.” You spoke with genuineness and finality.

It was pleasing to hear you say such a thing, and even better to know that you truly meant it. One thick, burly arm slowly encircled your hips, bringing you into the warm expanse of his chest. “Good,” He murmured, expression steely. “That pleases me greatly.”

To know that Cregan valued your happiness was a wonderful feeling — you felt cared for and seen, shrouded within his protectiveness. You imagined that it would be a blissful marriage. “Thank you, Cregan.” His name slipped from your perfect tongue, and he thoroughly enjoyed the sound it made.

A low rumble vibrated through Cregan’s chest as he drew you as close as he could, tracing his calloused digits along the soft curve of your jaw. “You are very beautiful,” He murmured, timbre edged with a delicious husk that made your knees buckle. You shivered, something that he took note of. “Are you cold, wife?”

You nodded, sucking in a sharp breath when his lips neared yours. “I am.” A squeak escaped you, followed by a steady exhale. You had been kissed before, but the extent of your experience abruptly stopped there. You imagined that you wouldn’t be cold for much longer.

His lips met yours, the kiss tender yet passionate, deepened by your husband. Cregan found your mouth to be most pleasant, pliant and perfectly soft, yet malleable. You reciprocated his kiss, hands moving to press against his chest.

“Will it be painful?” You whispered, likely in an attempt to soothe your gnawing nervousness. Agony was something that didn’t coexist with pleasure, in your mind. You wanted this moment to be special and sacred, binding yourself to your husband.

Cregan hesitated, gently cupping your face with his rough palm, tenderly stroking along your cheek. “I wouldn’t dare harm you, princess. You have my word.” He assured, and it confirmed his suspicions — you hadn’t been with another before. “It might be painful, but I will be gentle. We don’t have to start tonight.”

Admittedly, it was quite the opposite for you — you wanted to start tonight, but you longed for clarification first, and he gave it to you. You shook your head, hands slipping toward the front of his tunic, as if silently pleading with him to stay. “I want to.” You insisted, looking like the picture of innocence.

As much as he liked you sweet and pious, Cregan had a feeling that it would be somewhat different after this. His gray hues swirled with a heavy desire, dropping towards the delicate curve of your mouth. “May I?” It was all that he needed to ask, and as soon as you nodded, he brought you in for a heated kiss.

Despite his appearance, a stone-faced wall of muscle and Northern strength, he was incredibly gentle with you. He held you against him, never tight enough to cause you discomfort, hands softly kneading into your hips. You kissed him back as best as you could, feverishly hot, butterflies erupting within your stomach.

His beautiful wife — Cregan could not imagine another, now that he had you in his arms. The way you kissed him was innocuous and tender, as if you were also terrified of making a mistake. Your purity, a precious thing indeed, would be tarnished and dissolved after this evening.

The thought of you, round and swollen with his child, was both tantalizing and tempting — well within his grasp. Cregan wondered if they would take after you, pale-headed with lilac hues, or perhaps himself. If the Gods were good, they would be a blend of the both of you, a dragon and a wolf.

You shivered again when your burly husband curled his hand into the back of your wedding gown, fingers slipping between the gaps, feeling inklings of your bare skin beneath. “I’ll keep you warm, wife.” He rumbled, pressing a kiss against your jaw. It wasn’t from the cold, he knew this, but his honeyed words made you flustered.

He dropped his cloak, allowing the thick curtain of fur to land against the floor. He was impossibly broad, as thick as stone, tunic loose yet snug enough to accentuate his brawn. You felt your breath hitch within your throat, swallowing another barrage of nerves.

Cregan’s mouth assailed your neck, hand peeling away the collar of pale fur in order to reach you. Every kiss was passionate, wrought with need, yet maintained that air of gentleness. Roughness was in his nature, but he wouldn’t dare fall into that pit on your wedding night.

You tasted ambrosial, sweet velvet beneath his lips, which peppered themselves wherever they could. He listened to your soft gasps and needy whines, your hands having curled into the coarse material of his tunic. He wanted to show you just how perfect you really were.

Suddenly, your gown felt much too tight and constricting, as if you would drown within it. You alleviated such sensations by loosening the bodice, tugging on the ivory strings. The fur became unraveled as Cregan gently draped the garment over the back of a chair.

Left in the thin, humble trappings of your smallclothes, nothing more than a corset hugging a linen slip, he silently appraised you with the hunger of a wolf. You appeared to be shy, somewhat coy in his presence as he looked you over, large palms settling against the swell of your hips.

“Why do you shy away?” Cregan murmured, chestnut brows furrowing together, tone one of genuine concern. You were the prettiest creature he’d ever seen — most Targaryens were known for their beauty, but you possessed it both ways, inner and outer, and that only made you more incomparable in his eyes.

Swallowing your nerves, you chewed at the inside of your cheek, hands fidgeting together. “I suppose I worry about what you’ll think,” A sore insecurity, to be sure, but something most young maidens possessed. Cregan’s gray hues softened, one hand stroking along the length of your spine. “That I won’t be suitable.”

A huff escaped him, a threadbare chuckle as he shook his head, pressing a kiss against your forehead. “You worry too much, princess.” That deep, thunderous timbre of his, husky with his Northern accent, shook you right to your core. “You are my wife — and you are perfect.” He assured, kissing along your jaw.

You exhaled, hands reaching for his tunic, wanting to see him without his clothing. There was a rush of warmth that crawled across your flesh, surging through your blood as Cregan pressed endless kisses against your skin. He trailed from jaw to collarbone, hands loosening your corset.

With a brusque tug, your gruff husband tore it from you altogether, tossing the bodice aside. “I will show you how perfect you are.” He rumbled, voice a low, heavy caress near the shell of your ear. You shivered, gaze half-lidded as you tugged insistently at his tunic.

The message was unspoken, but conveyed nonetheless as your mountain of a husband let his hands drop from you, only to tug the coarse, dark linen over his head. He was burly, broad-shouldered and thick with muscle, wisps of chestnut tresses framing his face.

Amusingly enough, Cregan possessed more of a cherubic, youthful face than you expected, yet his nose was slightly crooked from having it broken, faint scars upon his face. His eyes seemed wisened, old beyond his years. He reached for your slip, gathering the material within his hands as he looked to you for consent.

With your confidence rejuvenated, you nodded, breathless and wanton as you assisted him in maneuvering out of your thin smallclothes. The brief lick of chilled air dragged across your bare flesh, causing your nipples to harden, pebbling with the chill.

Fire danced across your physique, tantalizing and gorgeous, beautiful beyond compare. Even Cregan seemed speechless for a beat, throat reverberating with a low grunt as he motioned toward your shared bed.

You half-expected him to pounce on you, grab your hips and stake his claim, but he simply resorted to watching you slide onto the bed, covered in furs of all varieties. The frame rustled slightly, and you laid down, a picture of true perfection. Your crown of pale tresses seemed to stick out amidst the darker pallor of the furs.

Anticipation churned violently within your gut, arousal slick and mounting between your thighs as Cregan stalked closer, removing clothing in the process. You watched with bated breath as he loosened the ties of his breeches, removing them altogether.

It was to be expected — a man of his indomitable stature likely had the assets to accompany it. You nearly choked at the sight of him, terrified that it really would hurt, even if he was gentle. You sucked in a sharp breath, bewildered when he had reclined beside you instead.

“I won’t bite, my Lady.” Cregan rumbled, soothingly patting his lap as you crawled closer. He effortlessly picked you up, letting you straddle his hips as he admired you from below. “Hm.” With a hum of approval, he caressed along your form, stroking from your thigh to your breasts.

It was agonizingly deliberate, made to explore and study instead of acting upon salacious impulses. Cregan observed you closely, palm gently cupping your breast, thumb swiping over your nipple. You gasped, careening into his sensual embrace.

A flurry of desire bubbled within him when you planted your smaller hand atop his, as if encouraging him to knead and grope at his leisure. He seemed pleased, and so did you, a low hum escaping you as he caressed your silky flesh.

He made sure to show that same amount of attention to your unattended breast, slowly kneading into you. Those tempestuous gray hues never tore themselves away from you, boring into you with a searing intensity.

Warm slick coalesced between your thighs, only mounting and growing when he continued to touch you, hand lifting to cup your chin. You absentmindedly leaned into his touch, eyes becoming half-lidded as you rocked forward within his lap.

The sensations you felt were new and exhilarating, goosebumps dancing across your spine, heat pooling between your legs. “May I touch you?” You asked, tone delicate and sweet, a display of your piety and innocence. He quite enjoyed your desire to explore alongside him, and he gave a nod of his head.

“You don’t need to ask, princess.” He soothed, jaw tensing as your soft palms settled against his chest. Cregan’s stormy eyes didn’t leave you, carefully tracing each plane of your curves, the downy texture of your skin, the lilac glint of your eyes.

Your fingertips dragged across his musculature, committing each scar to memory, features becoming hot beneath his incendiary stare. He was your husband now — you imagined that scenarios like these would become commonplace. “You are so handsome,” You whispered incredulously, lips curling into a gentle smile. “Perfect.”

Cregan appeared perplexed, a soft huff escaping him as he trailed his calloused palm across the small of your back. He couldn’t recall the last time someone had called him perfect and meant it — and he knew that you did. He neglected to act, allowing you to explore as much as you pleased.

Awestruck, he watched with silent hunger as you leaned down, lips pressing against his own. A soft grunt escaped Cregan as he caged you in, mouth passionate as it tangled with yours. He enjoyed the feeling of your body snug atop his, your skin resplendent, like velvet against the grating bite of stone.

Dragging a hand from the swell of your hips to the nape of your neck, he gripped the base of your skull, gingerly kneading into your pale tresses. He kissed you again, oozing with desire as he stole every wisp of air from your lungs.

He pulled one leg up into a v-shape, supporting your back to keep you upright atop his lap. You could feel the thick girth of his cock nudge against your backside, causing you to shiver at the foreign sensation. “Do you trust me?” Cregan murmured, roughened fingertips dragging over the pliant flesh of your thigh.

There was an indiscernible look within his eyes, chestnut brows drawing together slightly. Your breath hitched as you nodded, and Cregan settled against the furs, strewn on his back. Those strong hands of his continued to nudge you forward, bringing you from his warm lap to his chest, and then a touch closer.

“What are you …” Uncertain yet filled with exhilaration, you had no idea what Cregan was planning. Your slick cunt neared his mouth, and your Northern paramour did little to slow the process, bumping you forward until you hovered above him. “C—Cregan, C —” Your voice tapered off into a whine.

His tongue raked hot embers across your cunt, a sensation that immediately made your knees buckle. You used the headboard to brace yourself, mouth tearing open as a strangled gasp escaped you. Part of you feared sitting down entirely, but Cregan coaxed you down, hands digging into your haunches.

Your reaction was beyond worthwhile, body trembling and coiled, hand scrambling to brace yourself as the other fervently dug into his chestnut tresses. You never imagined that such pleasure was even possible, filling you with an excitable ecstasy that sank into your bones.

Splitting past your folds, Cregan tasted every inch of you, tongue seeking your cunt with a fervor. He was vigorous in his ministrations, not shying away from consuming every drop of your arousal. His nose brushed against your mound, hands kneading into your thighs to reassure you, let you know that he had you.

Even when he rested beneath you, he still seemed indomitable, perhaps a touch intimidating. You didn’t look down, body involuntarily trembling and rocking forward, back beginning to arch. “Gods, a—ah!” You stammered, thighs twitching and quivering as his tongue gently flicked over your clit.

Visibly flustered, you felt so strange and smitten, riding your husband’s face as you would your dragon. It filled your belly with a rousing fire, one bright enough to consume the rest of your body, licking along the length of your spine.

A low rumble emerged from Cregan’s chest, a vibration that rattled you to your core. He wanted you to have your fill, take as much as you could and drown within pleasure. Your maidenhead was still intact, a virtue that he did not treat lightly. He didn’t feel the need to breathe, lapping at your cunt with a wolfish gluttony.

You were undeniably soaked, like a fine stout upon his tongue as he devoured you. Cregan was passionate, each stroke of his tongue ensuring that you felt it all, bliss erupting throughout your stomach.

Chasing after what you imagined to be your release, you happened to peer down for a moment, finding the contented face of your husband, whose face was lodged between your legs. His brows were creased in concentration, tongue prodding against your entrance before languidly flicking back to your clit.

It was only when he pursed his lips around that sensitive clutch of nerves, that you nearly collapsed around him. Even your draconic blood could melt, tempered by the hardened ice of your Northern paramour. You gasped, hips stuttering as your thighs squeezed at either side of his head — fortunately, he didn’t seem to care.

The only thing you wanted was this, forever — your husband’s tongue between your legs, a sanctuary in the North with a potential family, a life in which you could finally find your solace. You continued to squirm and writhe, moaning his praises into the warmth of your chambers.

As you approached your peak, you grappled with Cregan’s tresses, tugging at the root as you rocked forward, again and again. “Cregan,” You moaned, countenance contorting into a look of sheer pleasure, bones crawling with an insatiable heat. “Cregan, Cregan, please!” It was a siren’s song of desire.

He did not stop, but he didn’t change course, either. Instead, he simply continued on, suckling at your clit as he intermingled it with timed laps of his tongue. Your release slammed into you, white-hot and blistering, gnawing away at your stomach as that coil of heat effectively snapped.

A whine emerged from you, one that was nearly breathless as you rocked forward again, legs shaking from ecstasy as you rode out your peak. Cregan, ever the dutiful husband, lapped at your nectar, savoring the taste, the scent of a pleasurable aftermath.

“What —” You had to catch your breath again, attempting to recuperate as you sat back on his chest instead, thick, burly muscle plentiful enough to cushion you. “Where did you learn how to do that?” It was an innocuous question, one so sweetly-spoken that it nearly caused Cregan to chuckle.

He did, however, smile — a rare, sentimental gesture reserved only for you. It was threadbare, and if it weren’t for the nature of your relationship, one might’ve thought him to be rugged and indifferent. “You need only ask, princess, and I will oblige.” His voice was a deep rumble that warmed your insides.

You thoroughly enjoyed the nickname of princess — a term of endearment given your status, but you were a princess no longer. “I am a lady of the North now, aren’t I? A princess no longer,” You proclaimed, skin shimmering with perspiration. “What will you call me, now?” You asked.

“Hm,” Cregan contemplated, pressing a kiss against your leg before he sat up enough to have a good look at you, chin still glistening with your slick. The sight was lewd, enough to make you unbelievably flustered as he grew closer, nearly chest-to-chest with you. “Lady Stark would suffice.” He murmured.

Something amorous burned within you, a smolder that soon turned to ignited sparks. “It would please me greatly.” You hummed, running your hands over his biceps before Cregan gently changed places with you, moving you beneath his bulk, comfortable upon your back.

Soft was a mere understatement — he could feel himself melt. It was not your dragon’s blood or heat that made him crumble, but your heart. He could imagine you as the mother of his children, belly round with his heirs, the Lady of Winterfell, a Hightower no longer.

He settled between your legs, and you gasped when his cock gently glided against your slick core. Cregan knew to temper himself, to be as gentle as he could with it being your wedding night, but his resolve was steadily diminished in your presence. He steeled himself, pressing a string of kisses along your body.

Without thinking, you unconsciously goaded Cregan into a point of near-frenzy. Your hands found the taut, trunk-like muscle of his biceps, visage filled with a sense of awe and adoration. “A child would please me greatly.” You confessed, having no clue what it would do to your husband.

Cregan stopped, digits curling into the thick furs on either side of your head. It took every fiber of his being not to fuck you then and there — and he wouldn’t, it wasn’t right for him to take your maidenhead with such roughness. His fantasy became reality, a visceral, beautiful vision that made him grunt, jaw unnaturally tense.

His rough palm soothingly stroked along your thigh, lust swelling within him like a blizzard, a violent storm of need that transcended all bonds of propriety. “Does Lady Stark want me to put a pup in her belly?” Cregan rumbled, tempestuous hues ignited with a fire that demanded to be extinguished, sending shockwaves right to your core.

You swallowed the growing lump within your throat, shuddering at the sound of his voice — an edged husk, like the rumbling of thunder before a deluge or the shaking of a mountain. “Yes,” You exhaled, searching his countenance, only to find desire. “I would.”

The Gods were testing him, aiming to see if he would break beneath the pressure, but he refused. Cregan lowered himself over you, lips molding themselves against yours in a hot kiss. Your hands remained poised atop his biceps, barely able to wrap themselves around the thick, corded muscle.

He wasn’t much of a talker, and it quickly dwindled into deep grunts and heavier sighs as he aligned his cock with your entrance. He made sure to part your legs, keeping them spread as he began to push inside of you. The sudden intrusion made you gasp, startled at the twinge of pain, the discomfort of it all.

Cregan despised the mere thought of causing you harm, and even he was willing to end it all then and there. “We don’t have to continue, beloved.” He rumbled, pressing a soothing string of kisses along your face. The endearing nickname made you preen, nails digging into his arms.

“No, I — I’m well enough,” You breathed, insistent on continuing. Cregan deliberated, but when you let out a low whine, he obeyed your command. “Gods, I need you, Cregan.” Pitched with a wanton resonance, you urged him to keep going.

Your neediness made his blood run hot, and he nodded, sluggishly resuming his pace. He continued to tilt his hips forward, cock feeding into you, inch by agonizing inch. Cregan felt the desperate bite of your nails clutching into muscle, leaving behind angry crescents.

You were never fully warned of the pain, the discomfort that accompanied pleasure. It was always sold as some fantasy, particularly for men — nights of heavenly passion resulting in bliss. For you, it was simply a marital duty to provide your husband with an heir, but this transcended that. Passion and affection sparked between the both of you, and it felt right.

As Cregan finally bottomed out inside of you, he allowed you time to fully adjust, rocking into you at a lackadaisical pace. He continued to shower you in kisses, wherever his lips could reach, giving particular affection to the crook of your neck.

Whatever discontent you felt, you hastily pushed it aside, tossing it into the recesses of your mind. Instead, you focused on him — on how incredible he made you feel, the warmth you experienced in his presence. One of your hands slipped to thread within his chestnut tresses, mouth agape.

You took him so well — better than expected, and it filled him with a sense of pride and ardor. Cregan pressed hungry kisses along your throat, nose buried into the hollow of it, right beneath your jugular. He continued to go slow, afraid of causing you further pain.

Cregan repositioned his hand, leaving one lodged beside your head, the other sinking into your haunch, digits tenderly kneading into your thigh. It was an offer of reassurance, and he watched your countenance shift from discontented to relaxed.

“Move,” The sharpness of your command brought him to heel, and he very nearly smiled — it was there, the ghost of it toying at his lips. Bringing his hips back and then forward, you moaned, knowing that the sting of pain would soon blossom into pleasure. “Please.”

Molten heat swirled within the pit of your stomach, arousal thick between your legs as Cregan began to find his pace, a rhythm that shook you to your core. He was so very gentle, even for a man of his herculean mass and muscle. He took care of you, soothingly caressing your thigh as he thrusted into you.

His cock filled you completely, a stretch that would take you more than just one night to adjust to. Your maidenhead was gone, your cunt tight around his length, pulling him in again and again.

Cregan’s breathing became heavier, somewhat labored as he consummated your union. Each snap of his hips held meaning, beyond the creation of an heir. It was tenuous with feelings, a burning sentiment he felt for you, ardor that had grown into a fire.

Admittedly, his mind was hazy, fueled by desire and the mere thought of you wanting a child — you had asked it of him, demanded, and he was at your mercy. Cregan couldn’t have gotten any luckier with you, the most resplendent woman he’d ever seen.

Imagining you full and round, still as lovely as the day he set his eyes upon you, a mother and a dragon — it was nothing short of true perfection. He chased after it, evident by the growing vigor and passion in each thrust of his hips, cock nearly tearing you into two.

No matter how gentle and careful Cregan was with you, it was to no avail, but you no longer cared. “Cregan,” You moaned, lifting one leg to hitch it around his waist, and that only seemed to further spur him on, allowing him to hit new depths. His throbbing length nearly kissed your womb, filling you to the brim. “Cregan!” You cried.

For a moment, you feared being split in-half by your mountain of a husband, but he slowed enough to let you recuperate, throat reverberating with carnal grunts. The rumbling of his chest, the heat that radiated from him in waves — it was all perfect.

It was driving him mad, the way your cunt constricted around his cock, the way in which your back arched from the furs, chest brushing against his. Cregan grunted, jaw set and brows furrowed in concentration as he kneaded into your thigh, something to alleviate his tension.

His thrusts deepened, became passionate and invigorated with love, and each snap of his hips made your head spin with delirium. You were drunk on desire, clinging to him as if you were a drowning maiden, hand splayed against his shoulder.

Whenever he happened to become a touch too vigorous, he felt your nails dig deep into his flesh, leaving behind the reddened marks of your consummation. Cregan was getting close, chest erupting with labored pants as he pressed his forehead against yours.

You moaned, body bending beneath his passion, malleable within his hands. His cock throbbed within you as he sought to spill his seed, face against yours, lips occasionally connecting in a series of sloppy, warm kisses. Everything felt incredible, in ways that you couldn’t comprehend.

He was so burly, a thick wall of impenetrable muscle that seemed to envelop you entirely, shield you from everything else, from all harm. Strands of chestnut stuck to his temples, flesh glittering with perspiration from the exertion of lovemaking, coupled with the heat in your chambers.

With another brusque thrust of his hips, he settled inside of you, reaching his peak with a subtle groan. His seed filled your cunt in hot ropes, more than enough to take, if the Gods were good. Cregan exhaled, feverishly hot as he began to recuperate, neglecting to remove himself from you for a few moments.

“Are you alright?” Cregan murmured, ensuring your wellbeing first, above all else. A stinging soreness settled into your thighs and your core, but you would survive. He didn’t completely obliterate you, thankfully — you wondered what he would be like, unrestrained.

“Yes,” You smiled, visibly flustered beneath the intensity of his stare. “That was incredible.” Your confession made him huff, likely one of amusement as he pressed a kiss against your forehead. Even you glittered with sweat, but that was to be expected.

You already wanted more — and you nearly asked it of him.

Lascivious fantasies took root within your mind, and the mere idea of him being rough and completely domineering made your cunt throb. You could not do it now, given how exhausted you were, but he had certainly unlocked a new side to you, a side that you were unfamiliar with.

Cregan pulled himself from you, propping your hips up beneath a feathered pillow to ensure that his seed would take. He rested beside you, drawing you into the bulk of his muscled arms, allowing you to rest your head against the expanse of his chest. “You were perfect.” He rumbled, roughened digits stroking along your spine.

It pleased you to know that your husband was satisfied with you, much to your delight. “I am glad,” Relief rippled through you as you inched closer, perfectly slotted against his frame. “So were you.” Your pleasant accolades made him smile, fracturing his stony exterior.

“There will be plenty of time for this, that I can promise you,” Cregan was more concerned with getting to know you, his beautiful lady-wife, Lady Stark. “I would like to start with you.” He murmured, savoring the sensation of your fingers tracing across his abdomen.

You blinked, seemingly surprised by Cregan’s genuine interest in you. It made you happy — perhaps you could have both. Moments of learning and moments like these, where you could indulge in pleasure.

“Would it offend you if I asked you to do both?” You questioned, warmth crawling along your body as Cregan squeezed the swell of your hip, gray hues sparkling with a semblance of mirth.

“It wouldn’t,” Cregan mused, timbre dropping to a lull, a husky octave that seemed to envelop you in its stoicism and warmth. “It pleases me to know that Lady Stark possesses the appetite of a dragon.” His teasing made you squirm, but he simply caressed you and held you closer.

With a coy smile, you lifted your head, pressing your lips against his, asserting your still-lingering desire for your husband. “Not a dragon,” Your tone softened with a sweeter resonance. “A wolf.”

copyright @ swordgrace ; please do not steal my work and claim it as your own or translate it onto other platforms.

[malakandmasa025]

URGENT APPEAL !!!!

🍉🍉Save the life of the child Malak "who suffers from Down Syndrome"🍉🍉

Hello, my name is Doaa, and I'm reaching out on behalf of my beloved daughter Malak , who is a 3-year-old girl born with Down syndrome. Despite war hardships, Malak always had her safe haven - her home, where she received the care and attention she deserved.

However, the ongoing war in Gaza has turned our world upside down. We've been forced to flee our home, leaving behind everything, including her treasured belongings and familiar routines. As a child with Down syndrome, the upheaval and uncertainty of these drastic changes have taken a profound toll on her.

Life became very hard,prices have escalated, clean water is a dream.After displacing to the south ,and the destruction of our beloved house and the loss of all what we have ever worked for, we now live in a tent.With winter on the way,as a mum , I'm terrified on my daughter's health condition as she was born with a weak heart.No enough blankets, air is strong,cold is freezing.She is always sick.

It breaks my heart to see her struggle each day amidst the chaos of war. With medical supplies and necessities scarce in Gaza, it's become increasingly challenging to provide Malak with the care and support she needs and deserves. That's why I'm reaching out to you today.

No one knows what it truly means to face shock in complete silence,to smile in face of situations that invite tears,and no one realizes what it feels like to boil inside while standing at the peak of steadfastness.Behind this apparent strength lies a deep suffering that no one can grasp.My heart is slowly torn apart under the weight of suppressed pain.Life forces me to pretend to be strong,when apart of me fades away with each moment.I'm left with a bitter feeling of isolation and loneliness.Please don't leave my daughter alone face the struggle of the gloomy war, starvation,pollution and lack of medicine.

I'm starting this GoFundMe campaign with one simple plea: help us provide to Malak medicine and pampers.Your donations facilitate Malak's life;she can receive the medical attention and care she urgently requires Every donation, no matter how small, will make a world of difference in her  life.

Please, let's come together as a community and make her  life a little easier. Your kindness and generosity will not only bring hope to Malak but also provide our family with the reassurance that she is,to some extent ,safe and well-cared for. Thank you from the bottom of our hearts for your support and compassion during this incredibly challenging time.

The campaign was documented by @90-ghost

@gaza-evacuation-funds

@@90-ghost @nabulsi @theclowninghour @wetsweatgym @creating-something-stuff @kryaaas @gazavetters @gaza-evacuation-funds @gaddisjamiu @staff @ruffffffing @wetsweatgym @teresamerandi @gazikacmislaflar @equipo @palesttino

[carawenfiction]

One night you are faced with a dream that alters something within you, forcing you to return to your now abandoned childhood home to search for answers.

Little do you know that the house is connected to another realm where darkness reigns and sunlight is nothing but a distant notion; a realm your family appears to be mysteriously involved with.

Upon encountering a group of paranormal beings of unknown nature, you are drawn further into a strange and unsettling existence as you strive to uncover the truth of your past and find your way back home.

Whatever path you choose, remember to look out for your own shadow.

"The Shadow Society" was first published in 2020 and is currently undergoing an extensive rewrite. The new version leans more into mystery elements with added focus on characters, relationships and how they are forged in a world where nothing is certain.

One sequel is planned to release once the rewrite is finished.

The rewrite of “The Shadow Society” is an 18+ game that includes depictions of violence, mental health, mental illness and sexual content.

Demo is temporarily private.

Patreon | Ko-fi

* Play as a male, female or non-binary main character whose personality, actions and appearance are shaped entirely by your choices. * Play as gay, bi, straight, aromantic or asexual. * Discover a hidden world and take the first steps in uncovering its secrets. * Pursue one of five love interests along with two hidden ones, become entangled in a triangle between two siblings or remain single. * Determine who to trust and who to shun, who to befriend and who to antagonize, among a cast of characters with differing secrets and motivations. * Experience a story that explores the meaning of reality and illusion, truth and deceit, in a world of shadows that mirrors our own.

✹ A (Azuridian/Azuridia)

Their eyes, cold and piercing, seem filled with bitter truths that they refuse to share. They protect their knowledge fiercely and disclose only what they believe they need to when the situation calls for it. Some call them arrogant, but to that they would retort that they are the only one who can do what needs to be done. Driven and direct with a dash of sensuous charm, they don't hesitate to pursue what they want.

Appearance (male version): His face is angular and pale, his lashes a fringe of silver-white. His hair is slicked back, the sides of his head trimmed in an orderly fade cut. He wears a form-fitting, navy blue suit that gives a refined and sophisticated impression. A powerful yet subtle presence, he seems to quietly command the very air around him, emanating a sense of confidence that is both inviting and intimidating all at once.

Appearance (female version): Her face is angular and elegant, her lashes a fringe of silver-white. Her hair is gathered into a high ponytail that reaches her lower back, the sides of her head trimmed in an orderly fade cut. A sensual carmine red blooms on her lips, standing in stark opposition to her somewhat achromatic appearance. She wears a form-fitting, navy blue suit that gives a refined and sophisticated impression. A powerful yet subtle presence, she seems to quietly command the very air around her, emanating a sense of confidence that is both inviting and intimidating all at once.

✹ G (Gwyndal/Gwendolyn)

There is something palpably playful about their gaze. When turned your way, it seems to shine with the same kind of interest a child might show a shiny new toy. Though jovial and charming, there's something just beneath the surface of their demeanor that gives the impression that something far less pleasant lurks within. G has certain obsessive tendencies - their tireless interest in anything related to the 'Sunworld', as they are prone to call your home, for one - and seems to prefer the company of humans to the company of their own kind.

Appearance (both versions): They have tawny skin that contrasts with the short, blond hair that frames their rounded face, a slightly upturned nose sitting above charmingly curved lips. Their clothing style is eclectic and flashy, consisting of a torn yellow shirt with red- and black checkered pants. Silver chains hang around their neck and wrists, the metallic sheen matching the piercings that line their pointed ears.

✹ M (Michael/Michaela)

Though they aren't considered particularly bright, their dark eyes hold a reassuring warmth, alight with zest that could lure a smile from even the most jaded of people. But at times, when they think you aren’t looking, that spark seems to dim, the faint creases in their face appearing more prominent.

They are quick with quips and remarks they most likely hope others find witty, and equally quick to lend an ear and protect the things they care about.

Appearance (male version): His hair is dark brown, thick and tousled, often falling into his eyes. As an avid athlete he works out frequently, sporting a toned and muscular figure as a result. His clothing style is simple and comfortable, rarely going beyond casual jeans, t-shirts and sneakers.

Appearance (female version): Her hair is dark brown and thick, often pulled back in a high ponytail. As an avid athlete she works out frequently, sporting a toned and muscular figure as a result. Her clothing style is simple and comfortable, rarely going beyond casual jeans, t-shirts and sneakers.

✹ Q (Quaiel/Quarie)

A great, invisible chasm stretches between them and the people in their vicinity, a silent yet keenly felt tension seeming to follow wherever they go.

Bereft of the ability to speak, they somehow still appear more forthcoming than the people they surround themselves with. Somewhere deep inside they harbor an unyielding loyalty to A that is difficult to comprehend, especially when the latter's morals and actions often clash with what Q would normally agree with.

Though they rarely seek others out willingly, their eyes are kind, and when gazing upon someone they care about, a subtle tenderness seems to shine through.

Appearance (male version): His creamy skin is dotted with freckles that peek out around the dark muzzle covering his lower face. His red hair is curly and unevenly cut, long in the front and short in the back. A tattered, knitted cardigan falls off one shoulder, reaching a little past his knees. Beneath he wears a white shirt carelessly half-tucked into umber pants.

Appearance (female version): Her creamy skin is dotted with freckles that peek out around the dark muzzle covering her lower face. Her red hair, curly and wild, falls over her shoulders down to her waist. A tattered, knitted cardigan lays half-neglected at her elbows and reaches a little past her knees. Beneath she wears a white shirt carelessly half-tucked into umber pants.

✹ R (Rheylo/Rheyla)

Their gaze is withdrawn, bordering on hostile, their eyes a pair of flames that seem to want to incinerate whoever they’re aimed at. They hide themselves behind long, black hair and a hood, wielding snark and sharp comments as weapons to fend off deeper probing into their psyche. For all their posturing, they get embarrassed easily and may not be quite as laidback as they hope to appear.

Appearance (male version): His skin is medium-dark, a faint of stubble crawling along his jaw on the half of his face that he deigns to show. Though difficult to spot, a small gap that he'd rather keep hidden rests between his front teeth. His straight, midnight-black hair falls down to his elbows, obscuring the right half of his face.

Three braids adorn his left temple - two slim plaits framing a thicker rope that drapes artfully across his shoulder. He is clad entirely in obsidian hues. A form-fitting, sleeveless turtleneck hugs his torso, while wide trousers skim his calves, cinched above knee-high boots. A yukata-inspired, cloak-like garment covers the inner layers, generous sleeves pooling at his wrists. A heavy belt circles his waist, securing the flowing fabric.

Appearance (female version): Her skin is medium-dark. In her upper row of teeth, between darkly painted lips, rests a small gap she'd rather keep hidden. Her straight, midnight-black hair falls down to her elbows, obscuring the right half of her face.

Three braids adorn her left temple - two slim plaits framing a thicker rope that drapes artfully across her shoulder. She is clad entirely in obsidian hues. A form-fitting, sleeveless turtleneck hugs her torso, while wide trousers skim her calves, cinched above knee-high boots. A yukata-inspired, cloak-like garment covers the inner layers, generous sleeves pooling at her wrists. A heavy belt circles her waist, securing the flowing fabric.

✹ Jaelyn

Your ex-best friend/ex-lover. Though quiet and reserved, they are not without humor; once comfortable with a person, their perceived shyness can turn into good-natured smugness and gentle back-and-forth teasing. They have a certain fondness for books and will take whatever opportunity they get to quote a work they enjoy.

Jaelyn works closely with the Shadowman/Shadowlady and is often the one who carries out their orders, though not always without complaint. Though loyal, they are not a blind follower and possess strong opinions of their own. As for their motives and how they ended up in their current position is anyone’s guess.

Appearance (male version): His eyes are a mystery to you, concealed behind a pair of gradient colored, diamond-shaped glasses. He has dark skin and long tight curls that are parted on one side. His lean figure is draped in clothing that appears at once modern and antique, consisting of a violet blouse with an intricately designed jabot, waist-high pants and a pair of leather boots.

Appearance (female version): Her eyes are a mystery to you, concealed behind a pair of gradient colored, diamond-shaped glasses. She has dark skin and long tight curls that are parted on one side. Her lean figure is draped in clothing that appears at once modern and antique, consisting of a violet blouse with an intricately designed jabot, waist-high pants and a pair of leather boots.

✹ The Shadowman/The Shadowlady

It was their voice that drew you in first; the kind that could lure anyone into a sense of security and then cruelly leave you to navigate best you could in its absence. Smooth and mysterious, they grace your life through whispers and echoes of times long gone. When you first meet them face to face, they hide behind masks and shadows alike.

But who are they, really?

Appearance (male version): His turquoise eyes glow with a terrifying kind of potency, lips formed in an ever-present half-smile. He stands taller than most humans, his long hair streaked with black and silver, gathered in a loose ponytail that reaches his lower back. A few wisps that have managed to free themselves almost appear to float around his face, dark clinging to shining grey like black ink stuck to parchment.

His long lashes, each black one followed by one of silver, curve above tiny streaks and dots delicately painted to accentuate his eyes. A golden earring attached to a peacock feather hangs from his left ear, swaying delicately when he moves.

His skin appears polished and glossy, like that of a porcelain doll, his figure lithe and broad shouldered. He wears an iridescent blue and green robe that is adorned with gemstones. Underneath he wears a fitted, sleek black suit, complete with a tie. Strange, dark dust covers his hands and long, claw-like nails.

Appearance (female version): Her turquoise eyes glow with a terrifying kind of potency, lips formed in an ever-present half-smile. She stands taller than most humans, her long hair streaked with black and silver and pulled back in an elaborate updo. A few wisps have managed to free themselves from the chignon and float gently around her face, dark strands clinging to shining greys like black ink stuck to parchment.

A golden earring attached to a peacock feather hangs from her left ear, swaying delicately when she moves. Her lashes are long, each black one followed by one of silver. She wears purple-blue eyeshadow and shimmering purple lipstick.

Her skin appears polished and glossy, like that of a porcelain doll. She wears an iridescent blue and green robe that is adorned with gemstones. Underneath she wears a low-cut dress  that clings to her voluptuous figure. Strange, dark dust covers her hands and long, claw-like nails.  

Appearance (non-binary version): Their eyes glow with a terrifying kind of potency, lips formed in an ever-present half-smile. They stand taller than most humans, their long hair streaked with black and silver and pulled back in a loose ponytail that reaches their lower back. Their lashes are long, each black one followed by one of silver.

Sometimes their figure appears soft, shaped by feminine curves, other times lithe and slender with broadened shoulders. They wear an iridescent blue and green robe that is adorned with gemstones and slide off their shoulders, baring the intricate piece of golden jewellery tied around their neck.

Their long lashes, each black one followed by one of silver, curve above shimmering purple-blue eyeshadow and purple lips. A golden earring attached to a peacock feather hangs from their left ear, swaying delicately as they move. Strange, dark dust covers their hands and long, claw-like nails.  

Current Progress:

Written/reworked chapters: Prologue, chapter 1, beginning of chapter 2.

Edited chapters: Prologue, chapter 1.

Demo wordcount excluding code: ~35k as of end of April 2025.

Total wordcount excluding code: ~47k as of end of April 2025.

Credits

@filopay for the gorgeous cover art

Canva for the other images used in this post